51792. “When last I checked, you were a sorcerer, not a Jedi.” “You’ve seen Star Wars?” “Seen it and denounced it.” “You’ve denounced Star Wars?” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Hollywood should not glorify witches.” “I think you’ve missed the point…” “I also denounce Harry Potter.” “Really?” “Yes.” “Because…” “…because literature, especially children’s literature, should not glorify witches.” “Oda, what do you do for fun?” She thought about it, then said, without a jot of humor, “I denounce things.” ― Kate Griffin, The Midnight Mayor
51783. “Bet you can’t even name one romantic movie you like,” she teased. She felt smug when a few minutes went by and Oliver was still unable to name one romantic movie he could profess to enjoy. The Empire Strikes Back,” Oliver finally declared, tapping his horn at a Prius that wandered over the line. The Empire Strikes Back? The Star Wars movie? That’s not romantic!” Schuyler huffed, fiddling with the air conditioner controls. Au contraire, my dear, it’s very romantic. The last scene, you know, when they’re about to put Han in that freezing cryogenic chamber or whatever? Remember?” Schuyler mmm-hmmmed. And Leia leans over the ledge and says, ‘I love you.'” That’s cheesy, not romatic,” Schuyler argued, although she did like that part. Let me explain. What’s romantic is what Han says back. Remember what he says to her? After she says ‘I love you’?” Schuyler grinned. Maybe Oliver had a point. “Han says, ‘I know.'” Exactly,” Oliver tapped the wheel. “He doesn’t have to say anything so trite as ‘I love you.” Because that’s already understood. And that’s romantic.” ― Melissa de la Cruz, Revelations
51777. “Isabelle waved a hand. “No need to worry, big brother. Nothing happened. Of course,” she added as Alex’s shoulders relaxed, “I was totally passed-out drunk, so he could really have done whatever he wanted and I wouldn’t have woken up.” “Oh, please,” said Simon. “All I did was tell you the entire plot of Star Wars.” “I don’t think I remember that,” said Isabelle, taking a cookie from the plate on the table. “Oh, yeah? Who was Luke Skywalker’s best childhood friend?” “Biggs Darklighter,” Isabelle said immediately, and then hit the table with the flat of her hand.”That is so cheating!” ― Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls
51763. “Lemons. He liked lemons. They made you make funny faces when you bit them, and a very, very long way in the future there was a really amazing planet where they’d evolved into people and lived in harmony with a variety of hyper-intelligent bee. Evolution. Thousands and thousands of years of tiny changes could turn little burning sparks of chemistry into people, into monsters and angels and even human beings.” ― Nick Harkaway, Doctor Who: Keeping Up with the Joneses
51750. “Mom’s secret recipe used Meyer lemons for a sweeter, richer flavor. That was one of her tricks. That and European butter. With its higher fat content than American butter, it made a flakier crust. “Lolly, what are the three secret ingredients that make this the best lemon meringue pie in the world?” She’d drilled me that last night before she died, demanding I recite every ingredient, every step, until she was satisfied I had it down pat. “The three ingredients are Meyer lemons, European butter, and a leaf of lemon balm boiled into the syrup every time,” I’d dutifully recited in her hospital room, feeling the weight of grief, of responsibility rest heavier on my shoulders with every word. Lemon balm was an unorthodox choice for pie, but Mom had loved cooking with edible flowers and herbs. She’d taught me everything I knew about them. I reached for the little lemon balm potted plant growing on the windowsill over the sink and carefully pinched off a leaf. “In the language of flowers, lemon balm means sympathy or good cheer,” she’d explained once. “So every bite of this pie can help brighten someone’s day.” I crushed the leaf of lemon balm between my fingers and inhaled the scent, hoping it would work on me. No such luck. I dropped the leaf into the pot and stirred. Every time I made these pies I felt her presence. She had loved lemons—their sharp, fresh scent and cheerful hue. She would slice a lemon in half and sniff deeply, happily. “See, Lolly,” she’d say. “Lemons brighten every day. They are a touch of kitchen magic, and we all need a little magic in our lives.” ― Rachel Linden, The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
51749. “Several weeks before he left Peking, Meyer visited a small village and noticed, in a house’s doorway, a small bush with fruit as yellow as a fresh egg yolk. Meyer ignored a man who told him the plant was ornamental, its fruit not typically eaten but prized for its year-round production. The fruit looked like a mix between a mandarin and a citron (which later genetic testing would confirm). It was a lemon, but smaller and rounder—its flavor surprised him as both sweeter than a citron and tarter than an orange. And its price, twenty cents per fruit or ten dollars per tree, suggested that people with an abundance of other citrus valued it greatly. Meyer had little room in his baggage, but he used his double-edged bowie knife to take a cutting where the branches formed a V, the choice spot to secure its genetic material. That cutting made the voyage to Washington, and then the trip to an experiment station in Chico, California, where it propped up a new lemon industry grateful to receive a sweeter variety. The lemon became known as the Meyer lemon, and from it came lemon tarts, lemon pies, and millions of glasses of lemonade.” ― Daniel Stone, The Food Explorer: The True Adventures of the Globe-Trotting Botanist Who Transformed What America Eats
51744. “Metaphorically, in relation to the idea of heartbreak, we’re given lemons which are the experiences that cause the idea of heartbreak, then the water comes from our tears that may come during the seasons of our trials and finally the sweetener comes from the joy of the breakthrough and transformation, and in the end you end up with this metaphoric lemonade. When we have a better understanding of heartbreak we go from lemons to lemonade.” ― Victoria L. White, Learning To Love: And The Power of Sacred Sexual Spiritual Partnerships
51742. “Metaphorically, in relation to the idea of heartbreak, we’re given lemons which are the experiences that cause the idea of heartbreak, then the water comes from our tears that may come during the seasons of our trials and finally the sweetener comes from the joy of the breakthrough and transformation, and in the end you end up with this metaphoric lemonade. When we have a better understanding of heartbreak we go from lemons to lemonade.” ― Victoria L. White, Learning To Love: And The Power of Sacred Sexual Spiritual Partnerships
51741. “After that, we don’t talk much until she brings out a ginger cake from the larder. “An old family recipe,” she says. “I’ve been experimenting with the quantities of cloves and Jamaica ginger. Tell me what you think.” And she pushes a slice toward me. I try not to gobble for it, for I am starving. “The most important thing with this cake is to beat in every ingredient, one by one, with the back of a wooden spoon,” she says. “Simply throwing everything in together and then beating produces a most unsuccessful cake. I know because my first attempt was as heavy as a brick—quite indigestible!” She gives a rueful smile and asks if I think it needs more ginger. I feel the crumb, dense and dark, melt on my tongue. My mouth floods with warmth and spice and sweetness. As I swallow, something sharp and clean seems to lift through my nose and throat until my head swims. “I can see you like it.” Miss Eliza watches me and smiles. And then I blurt something out. Something I know Reverend Thorpe and his wife would not like. But it’s too late, the words jump from my throat of their own accord. “I can taste an African heaven, a forest full of dark earth and heat.” The smile on Miss Eliza’s face stretches a little wider and her eyes grow brighter. And this gives me the courage to ask a question that’s nothing to do with my work. “What is the flavor that cuts through it so keenly, so that it sings a high note on my tongue?” She stares at me with her forget-me-not eyes. “It’s the lightly grated rinds of two fresh lemons!” ― Annabel Abbs, Miss Eliza’s English Kitchen: A Novel of Victorian Cookery and Friendship
51719. “The interruption did nothing but earn her a similar slap, as I’m sure she knew it would. Sometimes I wondered if my mother spoke up at the wrong time on purpose. As often as we endured my father’s abuse, she had to be aware that it wouldn’t save me from a beating but simply earn her one as well. Or was it that sharing my fate made her feel less guilt-ridden about those things that happened to me?” ― Richelle E. Goodrich, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
51718. “He panted over me, winded by his own absurd lecture. The stench of his alcoholic breath stung my nose. Again I didn’t answer. I hoped he’d tire out and end his speech and hobble back to the living room without touching me. Such hopes were unlikely, as was the case this time. “Answer me, you good-for-nuthin’ wench!” The pain bit instantly as his hand connected with my cheek. I shook my head in answer to his crazy questions, feeling a rise of warm tears.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
51716. “Gregory?” I called. I couldn’t help myself. It was irrational, but I was scared to see him run from me. He turned my direction, his feet pivoting in the dirt. Warily, I crossed into the light for a moment. “Do you, um…” I inhaled deeply. “Do you think you’ll still want to be my friend tomorrow?” I held my breath and waited for his answer. Although I could feel the sunshine perceptibly tingle every inch of exposed skin, the way Gregory smiled at me produced a swell of warmth unmatchable even for the sun. “I’ll always want to be your friend, Annabelle. Do you want to be mine?” My head nodded like mad, ecstatic, all on its own. I disappeared among the shadows again and watched my new friend until he stepped around the Hopkins’ house. Then I waited until his car drove off — Gregory and his mother headed for home. I was on a high like no other, but I’d not lost my grasp on reality entirely. I knew that the real test would come Monday. It was one thing to befriend an outcast in the privacy of the woods, but quite another to risk ridicule and reputation when surrounded by peers. This was true even for those with the biggest of hearts, which I now believed Gregory Hill to have.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
51715. “I realized at that moment – observing his form move further away without once turning back – that I’d already begun to rebuild the imaginary wall between us. I was shielding my heart with stone cold feelings again, the only way I knew to protect it. I still planned to try my hand at prayer. If God would grant me this one request, if I could keep my only friend, I would give anything in return, even the treasured books trapped beneath my arm. I’d tasted enough of a dismal life to know that a real, true friend was of greater worth than the collection of every imagined fairy tale in the world.” ― Richelle E. Goodrich, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
51708. “They picked the golden flowers. The flowers that flooded the world, dripped off lawns onto brick streets, tapped softly at crystal cellar windows and agitated themselves so that on all sides lay the dazzle and glitter of molten sun. “Every year,” said Grandfather. “They run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. Stare, and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion.” ― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
51701. “Merriem goes to the kitchen and quickly returns with a wooden tray piled high with thickly sliced bread and brightly patterned dishes of olive oil and dark vinegar. The bread is vivid yellow. It crumbles in my mouth and tastes sweet, honeyed. “Dandelions,” Merriem says to me. Papa is staring at his half-eaten piece. “I thought dandelion was a weed?” “It is,” Merriem replies with a grin. “Isn’t it marvelous?” “Yes, it’s very nice,” Papa says, still looking a little puzzled. “Dad and I call it sunshine bread, eh, Dad?” Huia says.” ― Hannah Tunnicliffe, Season of Salt and Honey