Mulligan Stew Quotes

Outside of the dreary rubbish that is churned out by god knows how many hacks of varying degrees of talent, the novel is, it seems to me, a very special and rarefied kind of literary form, and was, for a brief moment only, wide-ranging in its sociocultural influence. For the most part, it has always been an acquired taste and it asks a good deal from its audience. Our great contemporary problem is in separating that which is really serious from that which is either frivolously and fashionably "radical" and that which is a kind of literary analogy to the Letterman show. It's not that there is pop culture around, it's that so few people can see the difference between it and high culture, if you will. Morton Feldman is not Stephen Sondheim. The latter is a wonderful what-he-is, but he is not what-he-is-not. To pretend that he is is to insult Feldman and embarrass Sondheim, to enact a process of homogenization that is something like pretending that David Mamet, say, breathes the same air as Samuel Beckett. People used to understand that there is, at any given time, a handful of superb writers or painters or whatever--and then there are all the rest. Nothing wrong with that. But it now makes people very uncomfortable, very edgy, as if the very idea of a Matisse or a Charles Ives or a Thelonious Monk is an affront to the notion of "ain't everything just great!" We have the spectacle of perfectly nice, respectable, harmless writers, etc., being accorded the status of important artis ~ Gilbert Sorrentino

Get to the Point: Vampire Contributions in Western Architecture. Fangs and Balances: Vampire Politicians in History. To Drink or Not to Drink: A Vampire Dialectic. Blood Sausage, Blood Stew, Blood Orange: Food for All Seasons. And the awfully named Plasmatlas, which contained maps of important vampire locales. ~ Chloe Neill

In my mind, President Snow should be viewed in front of marble pillars hung with oversized flags. It's jarring to see him surrounded by the ordinary objects in the room. Like taking the lid off a pot and finding a fanged viper instead of stew. ~ Suzanne Collins

I didn't want to do a costume drama. It's a great thing to do, but I've done them, and I didn't want to do the same thing again. Of course, costume dramas can be from all different eras, but at the time, I just felt very sure that I didn't want to be boxed in as an English actress. I wanted to be an actress, rather than an English actress. ~ Carey Mulligan

We ended the day and hobbled back inside, greeted by the scent of the stew Laadan had cooked up. I went upstairs to wash the day's worth of grime off, and Aiden followed.

Once inside the room, I tossed him a coy look over my shoulder. At least, I thought it was coy, but I probably looked like I had something in my eye.

Aiden grinned nonetheless.

"Are you following me?" I asked, kicking off my boots.

He prowled forward, moving like one of those caged panthers we'd seen at the zoo. "I'm just being here for you, and I think you really need me right now."

"Ha. Ha." Out of my shoes, Aiden towered over me, I felt like a hobbit standing in front of him.

Aiden's grin spread and a dimple in his left cheek appeared. He tucked a strand of my hair back, then his hands dropped and he tugged the shirt out of my cargos. "I think you called it 'manning up'."

This wasn't the kind of manning up I'd been talking about the night before, because even with my limited knowledge of such things, he excelled in that department. But I said nothing as I stared up at him.

Lowering his head, his lips brushed over mine. I was sure I tasted of dirt and sour apple, courtesy of the Blow Pop I'd been nursing earlier, but he made this sound against my mouth, part growl and part something deeper. As the kiss deepened, like he could just devour the taste and feel, I melted against him.

"I really like your idea of ma ~ Jennifer L. Armentrout

Lourdes Venard's White Bean Stew ~ C.A. Rowland

Go and do, don't sit and stew. ~ John Bytheway

He knew everything. He knew at least a thousand Hungarian folk songs, all the words and tunes, he could handle Gypsies, give them instructions and keep them in order, check their familiarity with the flicker of an eyelid, then win their affection with a lordly, condescending, and yet fraternal-playful sidelong glance, he could call 'acsi' perfectly, shout at the first violin when he didn't strike up Csendesen, csak csendesen quietly enough and the cimbalonist when the padded sticks didn't make the steel strings thunder and rumble sufficiently in Hullamzo Balaton, he could kiss the viola player's pock-marked face, give the double bass a kick, break glasses and mirrors, drink wine, beer and marc brandy for three days on end out of tumblers, smack his lips at the site of cabbage soup and cold pork stew, take ages inspecting his cards (with relish, one eye closed), dance a quick csardas for a whole half-hour, urging and driving himself on to stamp and shout and toss his partner high in the air and catch her, light as a feather, with one arm: so, as I said, he could do everything that raises Man from his animal condition and makes him truly Man. ~ Dezso Kosztolanyi

What's that?" said Ron, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large steak-and-kidney pudding.
"Bouillabaisse," said Hermione.
"Bless you," said Ron.
"It's French," said Hermione. ~ J.K. Rowling

Maybe the cat has fallen into the stew, or the lettuce has frozen, or the cake has collapsed. Eh bien, tant pis. Usually one's cooking is better than one thinks it is. And if the food is truly vile, then the cook must simply grit her teeth and bear it with a smile, and learn from her mistakes. ~ Julia Child

Icy people often freeze themselves in order to hold in check a volcanic stew of disturbing and conflictual feelings. Emotional hibernation, if you will. Crack the ice and the stuff inside comes pouring out with all the discipline of molten lava. ~ Jonathan Kellerman

There was no doubt in the minds of nineteenth-century cooks and cookbook writers that there was something about pie - a difficult to grasp something that made it universally esteemed in a way that cake or stew or soup was not. ~ Janet Clarkson

Out there things can happen, and frequently do, To people as brainy and footsy as you. And when things start to happen, don't worry, don't stew. Just go right along, you'll start happening too! ~ Dr. Seuss

How dare you give the poor woman trouble over those nasty biscuits! If you made biscuits worth eating, sir, perhaps she wouldn't throw them to the fish!"
He blinked his eyes in astonishment. "Biscuits worth eating? I'll have you know, madam, that I bake the best biscuit on the high seas!"
"That's not saying much, considering that ship's biscuits are notoriously awful!"
"It's alright, Louisa, you needn't defend me - " Sara began.
Louisa just ignored her. "Those biscuits were so hard, I could scarcely choke them down. As for that stew - "
"Look here, you disrespectful harpy," the cook said, punctuating his words with loud taps of his cane. "There ain't nothin' wrong with Silas Drummond's stew, and I defy any man - or woman - to make a better one! ~ Sabrina Jeffries

We're this big melting pot, but someone turned up the heat too high, and the stew started to burn. Gangs, crime, fights, and fear are now a regular part of our local stew. ~ Neal Shusterman

Mari reached over and retrieved her cup of stew, sipping at it. "It's cold. Yours must be, too. Sorry."
Alain picked up his and finished it off quickly. "Between the fire and your presence, I am warm enough. ~ Jack Campbell

It was not Monsieur Arouet, but a colleague of his - a lady novelist - who remarked to me once that writing novels was a cannibal's art, in which one often mixed small portions of one's friends and one's enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction. ~ Diana Gabaldon

I can actually cook one meal now, as opposed to before, when I could cook nothing. My family are very excited. ~ Carey Mulligan

The house smelled like fireplace kindling, and hot water in old brass pipes - like metal melting into wood and becoming something all its own. It smelled like his childhood. Like chaos and terror and oatmeal cookies and lamb stew, and nighttime in front of that drafty front window. And the smell of it brought back thoughts, long past, about escaping from inside the walls and evoked the helplessness of every board that kept the place upright. ~ Melodie Ramone

My doggy ate my homework.
He chewed it up," I said.
But when I offered my excuse
My teacher shook her head.
I saw this wasn't going well.
I didn't want to fail.
Before she had a chance to talk,
I added to the tale:

"Before he ate, he took my work
And tossed it in a pot.
He simmered it with succotash
Till it was piping hot.

"He scrambled up my science notes
With eggs and bacon strips,
Along with sautéed spelling words
And baked potato chips.

"He then took my arithmetic
And had it gently fried.
He broiled both my book reports
With pickles on the side.

"He wore a doggy apron
As he cooked a notebook stew.
He barked when I objected.
There was nothing I could do."

"Did he wear a doggy chef hat?"
My teacher gave a scowl.
"He did," I said. "And taking it
Would only make him growl."

My teacher frowned, but then I said
As quickly as I could,
"He covered it with ketchup,
And he said it tasted good."

"A talking dog who likes to cook?"
My teacher had a fit.
She sent me to the office,
And that is where I sit.

I guess I made a big mistake
In telling her all that.
'Cause I don't have a doggy.
It was eaten by my cat. ~ Dave Crawley

She likes us," said Umbo. "I know, I could feel it too," said Rigg. "She's really glad to have us here. I think she loves us like her own children." "Whom she murdered and cut up into the stew." "They were delicious. ~ Orson Scott Card

Hot nettle stew, we should have thrown you from your horse ages ago. ~ Nicole Sager

She opened her eyes.
He sniffed.
Ah! The rosemary! Holding her breath, she waited.
He sniffed again. "Is it an herb, nyet?"
She nodded, smiling shyly. "Rosemary."
"The cook at Tullock puts it in turtle soup."
Her smile faltered. She smelled like a turtle? Not a fragrant loaf of bread, but a turtle? "Surely you've smelled it in some other dishes, too? Bread, perhaps?"
He shook his head.
"In a delicious stew, then? Something savory and warm?"
He released her cloak. "In my country, we throw rosemary onto graves."
She just looked at him, appalled.
"That seems odd to you, nyet? Rosemary keeps fresh the ... How do you say-?" He tapped his forehead. "Thoughts about times no longer here."
"Memories?"
"Da! Rosemary keeps fresh the memories of the dead."
Lovely. She smelled like a turtle and the grave. ~ Karen Hawkins

A monster lies in wait in me,
A stew of wounds and misery,
But fiercer still in life and limb,
The me that lies in wait in him. ~ Clive Barker

The Hulk before intermission, Bruce Banner after it. ~ Lin-Manuel Miranda

FOOD: See STEW, SCURVY, STEW, WAYBREAD (also known as Journey Cake) and STEW - though there are occasional BIRDS, FISH, RABBITS and pieces of cheese. Generally the diet is an unvaried one, although MARSH DWELLERS can work wonders with ROOTS. Puddings are unknown except occasionally in the Courts of KINGS. Tourists who suffer from diabetes should be quite safe. ~ Diana Wynne Jones

I love finding out why people don't love things. And if you ask people why they don't like things, particularly when they get into this sort of culture box, you find out that they're not liking things because of what people are going to think about them, and not because of what the things actually sound like. ~ Stew

I'd love to do a Paul Greengrass movie, or something like that, that's a character-driven action film. I'd like someone to make me go to the gym every day, and all that stuff. I don't know. Wherever the good characters are, I tend to try to get a job. It was nice because this was dipping my toe in the action genre. Maybe I might put my foot in, next time. ~ Carey Mulligan

Chapter Eleven

She did not spend long in the supermarket at Riverwalk, confining her purchases to supplies she would need for the next few days. There was beef for stew, a large pumpkin, a packet of beans, a dozen eggs, and two loaves of bread. The pumpkin looked delicious - almost perfectly round and deep yellow in colour, it sat on the passenger seat beside her so comfortably as she drove out of the car park, so pleased to be what it was, that she imagined conducting a conversation with it, telling it about the Orphan Farm and Mma Potokwane and her concerns over Mma Makutsi. And the pumpkin would remain silent, of course, but would somehow indicate that it knew what she was talking about, that there were similar issues in the world of pumpkins.

She smiled. There was no harm, she thought, in allowing your imagination to run away with you, as a child's will do, because the thoughts that came in that way could be a comfort, a relief in a world that could be both sad and serious. Why not imagine a talk with a pumpkin? Why not imagine going off for a drive with a friendly pumpkin, a companion who would not, after all, answer back; who would agree with everything you said, and would at the end of the day appear on your plate as a final gesture of friendship? Why not allow yourself a few minutes of imaginative silliness so that you could remember what it was like when you believed such things, when you were a child at the feet of your grandmother, listening t ~ Alexander McCall Smith

You hear even a hint that a blizzard's coming, Roxanne Giselle, you go straight to the store and buy toilet paper, you hear me? And make a pot of chili or stew. Don't get caught out. I don't want a phone call saying you starved to death, stuck in the house with no stew. ~ Kristen Ashley

Suddenly the whole body writhed spasmodically and rolled over. His face ... He has no face ... The man's nose had completely burned away leaving only two holes in his head. The mouth had melted together, the lips sealed with the exception of a small opening in one corner. One eye had melted down over what had been his cheek, but the other ... the other was wide open. Where the rest of the face should have been there were only pieces of cartilage and bone sticking out between irregular shreds of flesh and slivers of fabric. The naked, glistening muscles contracted and relaxed, contorting as if the head had been replaced by a mass of freshly killed and butchered eels ... The skin over the collarbone on one side was gone and a piece of the bone stuck out, glowing white like a piece of chalk in a meat stew. ~ John Ajvide Lindqvist