Two Peas In A Pod Quotes

All I know is wherever you are, I'm gonna be, because we belong together. We're like two peas in a pod. Like peanut butter and jelly, or macaroni and cheese.

At night, when we were little, we tented Bailey's covers, crawled underneath with our flashlights and played cards: Hearts, Whist, Crazy Eights, and our favourite: Bloody Knuckles. The competition was vicious, All day, every day, we were the Walker Girls - two peas in a pod thick as thieves - but when Gram closed the door for the night, we bared our teeth. We played for chores, for slave duty, for truths and dares and money. We played to be better, brighter, to be more beautiful, more, just more. But it was all a ruse - we played so we could fall asleep in the same bed without having to ask, so we could wrap together like a braid, so while we slept our dreams could switch bodies. (Found written on the inside cover of Wuthering Heights, Lennie's room)

I’m so lucky to have you, Leni,” Mama said, trying to organize her cards with one hand. “We’re a team,” Leni said. “Peas in a pod.” “Two of a kind.” Words they said all the time to each other; words that felt a little hollow now. Maybe even sad.

Once there was a man and a woman. When they met sparks flew, meteors collided, asteroids turned cartwheels and atoms split. He loved her from here to eternity, she loved him to the moon and back. They were two peas in a pod, heads and tails and noughts and crosses.

We're like two peas in a pod""Pity the pod

I couldn’t stop the snort that escaped me. If he really was friends with Cinder, it was no wonder why. They were two peas in a pod.” He arched a brow at me and folded his arms stiffly over his chest. “I thought you just said Cinder was one of the greatest characters of all time.” I matched his stubbornness. “Every great character makes mistakes. Cinder was wise by the end and able to rule over his people only because Ellamara taught him how to think beyond himself. He was a great character, but—” “I know, I know,” Brian interrupted with an over-the-top sight. “Ellamara was the real hero.

You don’t fucking get it, do you, Sparks?” Out of sheer frustration, Ben thwacked the wall with his hand. Hard. So hard his palm stung. “I love you. I am so goddamned, madly in love with you, I can’t see straight.” Ben’s voice resonated through the offices, echoed in his own ears. “You’re the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I imagine before I fall asleep. I dream about you. Every single night. I live to see you, at the office, at home, anywhere. I just need to see your face. Hold your body. Touch your skin. I need you, Mel. More than I need air. You can’t walk away from me. You can’t love someone else.” He gulped in a breath and almost choked on the emotion clogging his throat, so when he spoke again his voice was scratchy, and much, much softer. “I screwed up. I made you choose. And I’m sorry. So desperately, pathetically sorry for that. But I can’t let you go. I can’t let him have you, because you’re mine. You were made for me, like I was made for you. We’re two peas in a pod, sweetness. We’re the same, you and I. We’re meant to be together.

Heartache is my constant companion, and we’re perfect for one another. Two co-dependent peas in a pod. My past and my future.

I loved her like a sister and we’d known each other since we were babies, but on some level, you couldn’t have found two peas in the same pod that were so completely different. It was almost like opening the pod and finding a pea and a piece of corn.

Nothing about me scares him, because he's always able to match it. We're two peas in a fucked-up pod.

Look at us. A line of symmetry. Two halves of a whole. Two peas in a pod. A pair of queens. Though your card, I must observe, has aged better than mine, which has been played too often.

Advice" I must do as you do? Your way I own Is a very good way, and still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill. You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, That the prudent choose each time; And you think me reckless and rash to-day Because I prefer to climb. Your path is the right one, and so is mine. We are not like peas in a pod, Compelled to lie in a certain line, Or else be scattered abroad. 'T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend, If we all just went one way; Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, Though they lead apart today. You like the shade, and I like the sun; You like an even pace, I like to mix with the crowd and run, And then rest after the race. I like danger, and storm, and strife, You like a peaceful time; I like the passion and surge of life, You like its gentle rhyme. You like buttercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation's glow. I must live my life, not yours, my friend, For so it was written down; We must follow our given paths to the end, But I trust we shall meet--in town.

I think if you’re going to be in a solid relationship with someone, you need to be friends on some level. Like…enjoy each other’s company. You know? My parents are so solid that way. They bicker with each other, but at the end of the day, there’s no one they’d rather bicker with. Ford and Rosie are the same. Those two were peas in a pod before they even realized they were in the same pod.

Margaret and I are two little peas in a pod. I will take care of her with all my heart until my dying breath. She is in the very best hands. She will be loved from here to eternity. I love her simply for existing. And I love her because she has been my liberation.

They had argued a lot, but then suddenly they stopped fighting and began speaking calmly to each other, like they were strangers. That’s when I knew something was really wrong. Mo eventually explained that she and my father were simply different peas meant to live in separate pods. You would think two adults could figure that out before they got married and had kids.

I guess you’ll just have to get used to having a police car outside the grocery store, the gym, and wherever it is you go for lunch with your friends,” Jack lectured. “And this goes without saying: you need to be careful. The police surveillance is a precautionary measure, but they can’t be everywhere. You should stick to familiar surroundings, and be vigilant and alert at all times.” “I got it. No walking through dark alleys while talking on my cell phone, no running at night with my iPod, no checking out suspicious noises in the basement.” “I seriously hope you’re not doing any of those things anyway.” “Of course not.” Jack pinned her with his gaze. She shifted against the counter. “Okay, maybe, sometimes, I’ve been known to listen to a Black Eyed Peas song or two while running at night. They get me moving after a long day at work.” Jack seemed wholly unimpressed with this excuse. “Well, you and the Peas better get used to running indoors on a treadmill.” Conscious of Wilkins’s presence, and the fact that he was watching her and Jack with what appeared to be amusement, Cameron bit back her retort. Thirty thousand hotel rooms in the city of Chicago and she picked the one that would lead her back to him.

Mother said that no parent in their right mind would display a portrait like that. Esme was not at all contrite. The chair was so uncomfortable, she said, there were two springs digging into my leg. She was funny like that, always so ridiculously oversensitive. She was like that princess in the story about the pea and all the mattresses. Is there a pea, I would say to her when she thrashed about in the bed at night, trying to get comfortable, and she would say, whole pods of them

What's wrong between you two?' she said. 'You used to be like peas in a pod.' I thought about everything I might say, then chose the simplest. 'We're different.' Cate scoffed at that. 'So are ink and paper, but they get along very well indeed.' 'She's mad at me,' I said. 'Not mad,' Esther said. 'She thinks I'm the reason our daddy got hurt.' Cate scoffed again. 'You're a girl. You're not a tree.' 'She was in the way,' Esther said. Cate shook her head. 'Blame comes from the Greek for 'curse.' That's the root of it. A curse. Against the sacred. Which is what sisters are. Or should be. To each other.' She glared at us both. 'Sacred.

No, honestly. I mean it,' she said through her mouthful. 'You must know - she's lucky to have you out there with her. Izzy adores you. And for good reason.' I pretended to take a sip of the hot chocolate. But it was still too hot to drink so I let it glance against my top lip. 'She does?' I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage. Sophie frowned. 'Of course she does - she worships you! You're pretty much soulmates.' 'Did she say that?' I said, pretending to study my fingernails. Sophie laughed. 'You know Izzy - she doesn't like people to know she's a human. She didn't need to say it. Anyone could see you two are peas in a pod.' I took another pretend sip of the hot chocolate as the blood rushed to my cheeks. She adored me. Soulmates. I tried to write everything about that moment on to my memory.

COUNT. What’s to stop you taking her with you to London? FIGARO. A man who was married and had to be away so much? I’d never hear the end of it. COUNT. But with your qualities and brains you could climb the ladder and end up with an important government post one of these days. FIGARO. Brains? Climb the ladder? Your Lordship must think I’m stupid. Second-rate and grovelling, that’s the thing to be, and then the world’s your oyster. COUNT. All you’d have to do is take a few lessons in politics from me. FIGARO. I know what politics is. COUNT. Like you know the key to the English language? FIGARO. Not that it’s anything to boast about. It means pretending you don’t know what you do know and knowing what you don’t, listening to what you don’t understand and not hearing what you do, and especially, claiming you can do more than you have the ability to deliver. More often that not, it means making a great secret of the fact that there are no secrets; locking yourself in your inner sanctum where you sharpen pens and give the impression of being profound and wise, whereas you are, as they say, hollow and shallow; playing a role well or badly; sending spies everywhere and rewarding the traitors; tampering with seals, intercepting letters, and trying to dignify your sordid means by stressing your glorious ends. That’s all there is to politics, and you can have me shot if it’s not. COUNT. But what you’ve defined is intrigue. FIGARO. Call it politics, intrigue, whatever you want. But since to me the two things are as alike as peas in a pod, I say good luck to whoever has anything to do with either. ‘Truly, I love my sweetheart more’, as old King Henry’s song goes.

He’d lost the battle to protect his heart. “I love you,” he murmured as he lost himself inside her. “I love you, my dearest Celia.” When hope shone in her face, he said, “I’ll always love you.” Then he collapsed on top of her. They lay there, joined together, for several moments. When he rolled off, she curled herself against him and stared into his face uncertainly. “Did you mean it?” “Of course.” He brushed a kiss over her lips. “I love you, sweeting.” Joy leapt in her face, but as he continued to stare at her, it shifted to something that looked remarkably like calculation. “I suppose you expect me to say something similar.” Though his breath caught in his throat, he arched an eyebrow. “Still torturing me for this morning?” Pure mischief lit her pretty eyes. “Perhaps.” “Then I’ll have to make you more sure of me,” he drawled and reached for the bell cord. “Don’t you dare!” she cried, half frowning, half laughing, as he closed his hand around it. “Do you love me?” he asked and dangled the cord over her head. “I might,” she teased. “A little. Do you still think me a spoiled lady?” She grabbed for the cord, and he lifted it higher. “Probably no more spoiled than any other beautiful female used to getting her own way with men who adore her.” “At least you’re mixing compliments with the insults now.” She regarded him from beneath lowered lashed. “So you adore me, do you?” “Madly. Passionately.” He released the cord. “And no, I don’t think you’re spoiled. If I’d ever had any doubt, my aunt banished it completely.” “Your aunt?” “I told her everything…well, not everything, but the important parts. And after she pointed out that I’m probably the worst suitor ever when it comes to proposing, she defended your behavior this morning with great enthusiasm.” A devilish smile crossed her lips. “I think I’m going to like your aunt.” “I’m sure you will. The two of you are peas in a pod.

...literature does its best to maintain that its concern is with the mind ; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear, and, save for one or two passions such as desire and greed, is null , negligible and nonexistent. On the contrary, the very opposite is true. All day, all night the body intervenes; blunts or sharpens, colours or discolours, turns to wax in the warmth of June, hardens to tallow in the murk of February. The creature within can only gaze through the pane—smudged or rosy; it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comfort and discomfort, hunger and satisfaction, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe; the body smashes itself to smithereens, and the soul (it is said) escapes. But of all this daily drama of the body there is no record. People write always about the doings of the mind; the thoughts that come to it; its noble plans; how it has civilised the universe. They show it ignoring the body in the philosopher's turret; or kicking the body, like an old leather football, across leagues of snow and desert in the pursuit of conquest or discovery. Those great wars which it wages by itself, with the mind a slave to it, in the solitude of the bedroom against the assault of fever or the oncome of melancholia, are neglected. Nor is the reason far to seek. To look these things squarely in the face would need the courage of a lion tamer; a robust philosophy; a reason rooted in the bowels of the earth. Short of these, this monster, the body, this miracle, its pain, will soon make us taper into mysticism, or rise, with rapid beats of the wings, into the raptures of transcendentalism. More practically speaking, the public would say that a novel devoted to influenza lacked plot; they would complain that there was no love in it—wrongly however, for illness often takes on the disguise of love, and plays the same odd tricks, investing certain faces with divinity, setting us to wait, hour after hour, with pricked ears for the creaking of a stair, and wreathing the faces of the absent (plain enough in health, Heaven knows) with a new significance, while the mind concocts a thousand legends and romances about them for which it has neither time nor liberty in health.

literature does itsnbest to maintain that its concern is with the mind ; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear, and, save for one or two passions such as desire and greed, is null , negligible and nonexistent. On the contrary, the very opposite is true. All day, all night the body intervenes; blunts or sharpens, colours or discolours, turns to wax in the warmth of June, hardens to tallow in the murk of February. The creature within can only gaze through the pane—smudged or rosy; it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comfort and discomfort, hunger and satisfaction, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe; the body smashes itself to smithereens, and the soul (it is said) escapes. But of all this daily drama of the body there is no record. People write always about the doings of the mind; the thoughts that come to it; its noble plans; how it has civilised the universe. They show it ignoring the body in the philosopher's turret; or kicking the body, like an old leather football, across leagues of snow and desert in the pursuit of conquest or discovery. Those great wars which it wages by itself, with the mind a slave to it, in the solitude of the bedroom against the assault of fever or the oncome of melancholia, are neglected. Nor is the reason far to seek. To look these things squarely in the face would need the courage of a lion tamer; a robust philosophy; a reason rooted in the bowels of the earth. Short of these, this monster, the body, this miracle, its pain, will soon make us taper into mysticism, or rise, with rapid beats of the wings, into the raptures of transcendentalism. More practically speaking, the public would say that a novel devoted to influenza lacked plot; they would complain that there was no love in it—wrongly however, for illness often takes on the disguise of love, and plays the same odd tricks, investing certain faces with divinity, setting us to wait, hour after hour, with pricked ears for the creaking of a stair, and wreathing the faces of the absent (plain enough in health, Heaven knows) with a new significance, while the mind concocts a thousand legends and romances about them for which it has neither time nor liberty in health.

I am dreaming of happy Pandas. A whole field full of happy Pandas. I am beside myself. I am entirely myself. I am going to set myself on fire. Just you wait and see. I will destroy. You will obey. That's the way it has to be. You'll make the lemonade and I'll ensure that no other lemonade stand stands in our way. We will wear terrific Panda suits. We will have a secret hand shake. We'll stick to the plan. I will destroy. You will obey. That's the way it's going to have to be. Pouting about it won't change anything. Pouting about it will only make you look like an unhappy Panda and we can't be having that. So you should think before you speak. You should consider your options before you decide to become an unhappy Panda. Because you don't want to know what happens to Pandas that aren't happy. So you'd best be careful. Don't worry though. This is just us talking. This is just us coming together at the head. Like Siamese twins, like two happy peas in a pod. You would not like it if we were to do the other routine. There are no happy Pandas to be had in that one. Not at all. No mention of Pandas whatsoever. Just unpleasantness that I would rather avoid. So keep smiling. Always remember to keep smiling. Whatever will be, will be. There is nothing more pathetic than a sore loser. So keep smiling. Everything will take care of itself. Thank goodness. I'm tired now. I am going to go to bed. I don't much feel like being your friend anymore. The good old days are gone. Best to get on board with the depravity of the here and now. The world consumes, the world revolves, the world will someday come to and end. If not by us, then pulverized by the sun. The mysteries of the universe revealed with no time to study the data and reach an outcome, the sun will go out and all creatures great and small will be helpless against the unknowns of life. So why are you so worried? Why don't you go have some drinks, get laid, get back, get something. After everything has been done, been bought, sold, produced, consumed, recycled, re-packaged, and re-sold, you will have gained nothing by floundering about trying to change things that cannot be changed. The little things exist only so that the important ones never get touched upon. That's why you can wear leather shoes and, at the same time, refuse to eat beef. Because we are all, every one of us, ridiculous. And we've elected you our leader. I am going to go lay in bed and wait for the hands of impossibility to come strangle me. I am going to smile at my ceiling and sing the song of our undoing. I will wear my Panda pajamas. I will think of you often when I get to where it is that I'm going. Everything will be fine. Just you wait and see. Just you wait and see.

After

But who will I say you are? How will I explain you? People don't just appear out of nowhere." "Lord A'mighty," Andrew exclaimed. "Have you no brains? We're as alike as two peas in a pod. All we need to do is switch places.

Luck smiled when he heard the noise. He and Blessing were like two peas in a pod, in sync when things got gangsta.

Memorize this list of foods that you should eat liberally: 1.​All green vegetables, both raw and cooked, including frozen. If it is green, you get the green light. Don’t forget raw peas, snow pea pods, kohlrabi, okra, and frozen artichoke hearts. 2.​Non-green, non-starchy vegetables, including tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, mushrooms, onions, garlic, leeks, cauliflower, water chestnuts, hearts of palm, and roasted garlic cloves. 3.​Raw starchy vegetables, such as raw carrots, raw beets, jicama, radish, and parsnips. They are all great, shredded raw, in your salad. 4.​Beans/legumes, including split peas, lima beans, lentils, soybeans, black beans, and all red, white, and blue beans. Soak them overnight, then rinse and cook them, add them to salads and soups, make bean burgers, sprout them, and eat bean pasta. 5.​Low-sugar fruits, one or two with breakfast and about one more each meal. 6.​Try to have berries or pomegranate at least once a day. Frozen berries are the most cost effective.

At this point, every part of me has endured some sort of trauma that I’m not sure I know how to feel pain anymore. Guess we’re turning out to be two peas in a fucking pod.

...I wasn't sure if we'd ever be the same kind of friends we'd been when we were little. Maybe being two peas in a pod was over, but maybe we could be more like two wild blueberries: two of a kind, but different, too." -Lily

Slow down and remember this: Most things make no difference. Being busy is a form of laziness—lazy thinking and indiscriminate action. Being overwhelmed is often as unproductive as doing nothing, and is far more unpleasant. Being selective—doing less—is the path of the productive. Focus on the important few and ignore the rest. Of course, before you can separate the wheat from the chaff and eliminate activities in a new environment (whether a new job or an entrepreneurial venture), you will need to try a lot to identify what pulls the most weight. Throw it all up on the wall and see what sticks. That’s part of the process, but it should not take more than a month or two. It’s easy to get caught in a flood of minutiae, and the key to not feeling rushed is remembering that lack of time is actually lack of priorities. Take time to stop and smell the roses, or—in this case—to count the pea pods. The 9–5 Illusion and Parkinson’s Law I saw a bank that said “24-Hour Banking,” but I don’t have that much time.

ORIGINAL RECIPE: An other [Sallets for fish days] Salmon cut long waies with slices of onyons upon it layd and upon that to cast Violets, Oyle and Vineger. THE GOOD HUSWIFES JEWELL, 1587 Spring Pea Tortellini SERVES 8 TO 10 (APPROXIMATELY 80 TORTELLINI) … and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears ‘Wear these for my sake.’ AS YOU LIKE IT, 2.4 PEASCODS, OR PEA PODS, usually gathered in springtime, were exchanged as a token of love. An old English proverb states, “Winter time for shoeing, peascod time for wooing.” According to Elizabethans, if you tugged a pea pod off the vine and it stayed intact, it meant someone was in love with you. If you don’t want to make the tortellini, you can get almost the same taste combination by tossing one pound of cooked spaghetti with the pea mixture and sprinkling on the delicious and unusual Parmesan-cinnamon topping. 2 large eggs

Spring Pea Tortellini SERVES 8 TO 10 (APPROXIMATELY 80 TORTELLINI) … and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears ‘Wear these for my sake.’ AS YOU LIKE IT, 2.4 PEASCODS, OR PEA PODS, usually gathered in springtime, were exchanged as a token of love. An old English proverb states, “Winter time for shoeing, peascod time for wooing.” According to Elizabethans, if you tugged a pea pod off the vine and it stayed intact, it meant someone was in love with you. If you don’t want to make the tortellini, you can get almost the same taste combination by tossing one pound of cooked spaghetti with the pea mixture and sprinkling on the delicious and unusual Parmesan-cinnamon topping.

I always thought it would be a blessing, mother and daughter, two peas in the proverbial pod. And for a long time, it was…until thirteen.

See, we’re two peas in a pod, and both a little fucked-up in the head—one of us more so than the other—but I think that’s what makes us work so well.

two little peas in a pod.

Are we in a dirty Dr. Seuss book? Cock on lock? You’re deeply disturbed.” “And that, my friend, is why you love me. Two fucked up peas in a pod.” “Smash and dash. Oh god, you’re rubbing off on me.

Aunt Hattie and I developed a close bond that day. Mama claims that ever since, we were like “two peas in a pod.

Ford and I had once been two peas in a pod, almost identical in looks except for his dark hair to my blond.

While you make decisions about hors d’oeuvres for the party, maids will gently rub your temples to ward off too much hard thinking.

They are like two peas in a pod, two very similar forms of life being dragged together into one and the same.

You’d get stuck on an escalator in a power outage wouldn’t you! You deserve a standing ovation, from my tallest finger! Wow, over-confidence and ignorance in one package, how efficient of you! How big a bag of stupid did you just open anyway? If stupidity were bricks you’d be the Great Wall of China! I don’t even think Google could find you any common sense! You’d be considered gifted... If stupidity was a talent! I’ve seen turtles on Prozac that can think faster than you! If you had another brain, you’d really have “two peas in a pod” !