Baking Quotes

Quotes tagged as "baking" Showing 1-30 of 240
Sarah Addison Allen
“It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.”
Sarah Addison Allen, First Frost

Marissa Meyer
“This was why she enjoyed baking. A good dessert could make her feel like she'd created joy at the tips of her fingers. Suddenly, the people around the table were no longer strangers. They were friends and confidantes, and she was sharing with them her magic.”
Marissa Meyer, Heartless

Patricia Briggs
“Baking is like washing--the results are equally temporary.”
Patricia Briggs, Raven's Shadow

Jennifer Crusie
“The measuring and mixing always smoothed out her thinking processes - nothing was as calming as creaming butter - and when the kitchen was warm from the oven overheating and the smell of baking chocolate, she took final stock of where she'd been and where she was going. Everything was fine.”
Jennifer Crusie, Maybe This Time

Elizabeth Gaskell
“Mrs Forrester ... sat in state, pretending not to know what cakes were sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had been busy all the morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes.”
Elizabeth Gaskell, Cranford

Tom Robbins
“Whenever a state or an individual cited 'insufficient funds' as an excuse for neglecting this important thing or that, it was indicative of the extent to which reality had been distorted by the abstract lens of wealth. During periods of so-called economic depression, for example, societies suffered for want of all manner of essential goods, yet investigation almost invariably disclosed that there were plenty of goods available. Plenty of coal in the ground, corn in the fields, wool on the sheep. What was missing was not materials but an abstract unit of measurement called 'money.' It was akin to a starving woman with a sweet tooth lamenting that she couldn't bake a cake because she didn't have any ounces. She had butter, flour, eggs, milk, and sugar, she just didn't have any ounces, any pinches, any pints. The loony legacy of money was that the arithmetic by which things were measured had become more valuable than the things themselves.”
Tom Robbins, Skinny Legs and All

Celia Rivenbark
“Pecans are not cheap, my hons. In fact, in the South, the street value of shelled pecans just before holiday baking season is roughly that of crack cocaine. Do not confuse the two. It is almost impossible to make a decent crack cocaine tassie, I am told.”
Celia Rivenbark, You Can't Drink All Day If You Don't Start in the Morning

Celia Rivenbark
“Sophie and I would use her Christmas break to make homemade treats from our very own kitchen. I mean, if thousands of meth addicts can do it, why can't we?”
Celia Rivenbark, You Can't Drink All Day If You Don't Start in the Morning

“If you bake a cupcake, the world has one more cupcake. If you become a circus clown, the world has one more squirt of seltzer down someone's pants. But if you win an Olympic gold medal, the world will not have one more Olympic gold medalist. It will just have you instead of someone else.”
Steven E. Landsburg, The Big Questions: Tackling the Problems of Philosophy with Ideas from Mathematics, Economics and Physics

Florence Ditlow
“Through enjoyment we endure.”
Florence Ditlow

“The Second Law of Pies: they must be baked, not fried (or boiled, or steamed).”
Janet Clarkson, Pie: A Global History
tags: baking, pie

Karma Brown
“Can you grab the butter out of the fridge?"
It was as hard as a rock. She tried pressing her fingertips into its surface, leaving shallow indentations in the foil wrapper as the butter yielded little. "I'll need to wait for this to soften."
"You can grate it."
"Like, with a cheese grater? Really?"
Nate nodded. "A trick I learned from my mom. Works like a charm."
"Huh, who knew?”
Karma Brown, Recipe for a Perfect Wife

Joan Bauer
“It might take so.e time to get used to cooking with a stupid, dead fish looking on.

Close To Famous”
Joan Bauer

Allison Tebo
“And I think you’re wrong, Burndee. Humans do have recipes, but just like baking, there’s that little surprise in there. Why, the two things are so similar, I would think you should enjoy being a fairy godparent just as much as you enjoy baking.”⁠

Burndee gave her the dirtiest look he possessed and hissed between his teeth, “Cakes don’t psychoanalyze you.”⁠”
Allison Tebo, The Reluctant Godfather

Monique Truong
“When I was growing up, the taste of pancakes meant the kind that my great-uncle made for me from Bisquick. If condensed cream of mushroom soup was the Great Assimilator, then this "instant" baking mix was the American Dream. With it, we could do anything. Biscuits, waffles, coffee cakes, muffins, dumplings, and the list continues to grow even now in a brightly lit test kitchen full of optimism. My great-uncle used Bisquick for only one purpose, which was to make pancakes, but he liked knowing that the possibilities, the sweet and the savory, were all in that cheery yellow box. Baby Harper wasn't a fat man, but he ate like a fat man. His idea of an afternoon snack was a stack of pancakes, piled three high. After dancing together, Baby Harper and I would go into his kitchen, where he would make the dream happen. He ate his pancakes with butter and Log Cabin syrup, and I ate my one pancake plain, each bite a fluffy amalgam of dried milk and vanillin. A chemical stand-in for vanilla extract, vanillin was the cheap perfume of all the instant, industrialized baked goods of my childhood. I recognized its signature note in all the cookies that DeAnne brought home from the supermarket: Nilla Wafers, Chips Ahoy!, Lorna Doones. I loved them all. They belonged, it seemed to me, to the same family, baked by the same faceless mother or grandmother in the back of our local Piggly Wiggly supermarket.
The first time that I tasted pancakes made from scratch was in 1990, when Leo, a.k.a. the parsnip, made them for me. We had just begun dating, and homemade pancakes was the ace up his sleeve. He shook buttermilk. He melted butter. He grated lemon zest. There was even a spoonful of pure vanilla extract. I couldn't bring myself to call what he made for us "pancakes." There were no similarities between those delicate disks and what my great-uncle and I had shared so often in the middle of the afternoon.”
Monique Truong, Bitter in the Mouth

Monique Truong
“But, Mr. Harrison, did you never consider a career in music or, perhaps, as a visual artist?" the interviewer persisted.
"I have a high school diploma. Guys like me, we don't consider careers. We get a job," Corny said.
You're asking him the wrong questions. Ask about the sound of granulated sugar being poured into a stainless-steel bowl, the whirring motor of an electric mixer, or his fist punching down bread dough. A flat, B minor, or C sharp? Or did he prefer music made by others when he worked? If yes, then ask what songs and colors moved this man to make the lightest cakes, the chewiest cookies, breads with tender crusts?”
Monique Truong, Bitter in the Mouth

Holly Ringland
“While the others tended the flowers outside, the kitchen was her garden, where feasts and banquets bloomed. At twenty-six, she couldn't imagine ever loving anything as much as cooking. Nothing fancy though; no big white plates and tiny morsels. Candy cooked to feed the soul. Flavor and quantity were of equal importance. She had become Thornfield's resident cook when she dropped out of high school and convinced June she was safe with knives. It's in your blood, Twig said after a bite of her first cassava cake, fresh from the oven. These are your gifts, June said when Candy served her first platter of spring rolls with mango chutney, made from homegrown vegetables and herbs. It was true; when she was cooking or baking, it was almost as if a deeper, hidden knowledge took over her hands, her instincts, her tastebuds. She thrived in the kitchen, spurred by the idea that maybe her mother was a chef, or her father a baker. Cooking soothed the incision-like cut she felt inside whenever she thought that she might never know.”
Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

Cindy Callaghan
“I looked at the soda bread and the cottage. It all felt very grandmotherly, once you got past the “Hansel and Gretel” thing.”
Cindy Callaghan, Lost in Ireland

Dmitry Dyatlov
“[in response to the idiotic Mike Brady Ted talk] OF COURSE immigrants are unemployable!!! Didn't they tell you? We win LOTTERIES! to come to this shithole.”
Dmitry Dyatlov

Éric Dupont
“The nuns were not the only ones to take an interest in French-Canadian cooking that fall. It was a November evening, a little before the first snow. With both her parents out, Madeleine opened the can of maple syrup she had stolen from the Damours grocery store. The maple syrup pie recipe was quite straightforward. Just five ingredients. But Madeleine prepared it with all the care and attention to detail that the Japanese take in making sushi. She worked in religious silence, without making a mess, without spilling flour. The sweet aroma of maple syrup soon floated over the kitchen, then the living room, as the syrup boiled with the heavy cream. A smell delectable enough to wake the dead, to make them wish they were still alive. Madeleine washed the utensils as she went, leaving no trace behind. Once the pie was in the oven, its aroma gained in strength and substance.”
Éric Dupont, The American Fiancée

Dana Bate
“Baking and cooking bring me inner peace, like a tasty version of yoga, without all the awkward stretching and sweating. When my life spins out of control, when I can't make sense of what's going on in the world, I head straight to the kitchen and turn on my oven, and with the press of a button, I switch one part of my brain off and another on. The rules of the kitchen are straightforward, and when I'm there I don't have to think about my problems. I don't need to think about anything but cups and ounces, temperatures and cooking times.
When I was a freshman at Cornell, I heard a plane had flown into the World Trade Center while sitting in my Introduction to American History lecture. My friends and I ran back to our dorm rooms and spent the next few hours glued to the television. I kept my TV on all day, but after talking to my parents and watching three hours of the coverage, I headed straight to the communal kitchen and baked a triple batch of brownies, which I then distributed to everyone on my floor. Some of my friends thought I was crazy ("Who bakes brownies when the country is under attack?"), but it was the only thing I could do to keep from having a panic attack or bursting into tears. I couldn't control what was happening to our country, but I could control what was happening in that kitchen. Baking was my way of restoring order in a world driven by chaos, and it still is.”
Dana Bate, The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

Brianne Moore
“Oh, you smell delicious! What've you been baking today?"
"Roasted strawberries and rhubarb for a mascarpone ice cream. Lemon tart pastry, mint meringues, sun-dried tomato rolls, honey cake.”
Brianne Moore, All Stirred Up

Jennifer Weiner
“Chicken Francese, or lamb chops, or plump spinach gnocchi that she'd roll out by hand and drop into boiling salt water. When her brothers came home for the holidays, she'd spend days in the kitchen, preparing airy latkes and sweet and sour brisket; roast turkey with chestnut stuffing; elaborately iced layer cakes. She'd stay in the kitchen for hours, cooking dish after dish, hoping that all the food would somehow conceal their father's absence; hoping that the meals would take the taste of grief out of their mouths.
"After my father died, I think cooking saved me. It was the only thing that made me happy. Everything else felt so out of control. But if I followed a recipe, if I used the right amounts of the right ingredients and did everything I was supposed to do..."
She tried to explain it- how repetitive motions of peeling and chopping felt like a meditation, the comfort of knowing that flour and yeast, oil and salt, combined in the correct proportions, would always yield a loaf of bread; the way that making a shopping list could refocus her mind, and how much she enjoyed the smells of fresh rosemary, of roasting chicken or baking cookies, the velvety feel of a ball of dough at the precise moment when it reached its proper elasticity and could be put into an oiled bowl, under a clean cloth, to rise in a warm spot in the kitchen, the same step that her mother's mother's mother would have followed to make the same kind of bread. She liked to watch popovers rising to lofty heights in the oven's heat, blooming out of their tins. She liked the sound of a hearty soup or grain-thickened stew, simmering gently on a low flame, the look of a beautifully set table, with place cards and candles and fine china. All of it pleased her.”
Jennifer Weiner, That Summer

Harriet Reuter Hapgood
“Everyone says you have to be super-precise to bake - like your extra-credit thing, the time-travel project. One calculation out of place and the whole thing would go wrong, right? It's hogwash! Look at this - bit of eggshell in there, scoop it out with a finger, what the hell. Too much flour, forget the butter, drop the pan - it doesn't matter how many mistakes you make, it mostly turns out OK. And when it doesn't, you cover it with icing.”
Harriet Reuter Hapgood, The Square Root of Summer

“She set butter and sugar to warm in a sauté pan, and then turned to core, peel, and slice the apples, the sluicing sound of the knife against the crisp flesh of the fruit giving her whirling mind finally something to clutch. She dropped the apples into the pan, shaking it gently by the handle to coat the apples until they were slightly caramelized. Then she added a splash of cider and let the buttery, sweet liquid reduce before seasoning with cinnamon and pouring the softened apples into a serving bowl. She leaned over the bowl as she customarily did when making cinnamon apples to breathe the earthy-sweet aroma.”
Karen Weinreb, The Summer Kitchen

“Phillip had shown her where everything was stored, how to anticipate what customers would desire, and how to slip something different into the menu- something that would make them think, Hmm, that sounds interesting. She learned how to maintain an inventory of supplies, which suppliers could be relied on in a pinch, and how to monitor food costs. This last was a real lesson for Nora. She had never examined the invoices for the oils and butters, the creams, the bricks of chocolate charged automatically to her credit card. Now it was imperative that every nugget of sugar be accounted. Everything leftover could be turned into something new. A few extra leaves of fresh organic sage remained after the bakers had made enough herb loaves? Turn them into sage ice cream, to serve with twists of caramel. A few loaves came out of the oven too misshapen to sell? Break them up and make chocolate bread pudding. Soon enough she was not only costing out individual pastries, but enjoying pastry baking more for doing it. It completed the very preciseness of the art, and pushed her to be even more creative.”
Karen Weinreb, The Summer Kitchen

Brenda Sutton Rose
“Folding dough from the top, from one side, from the bottom, from the other side, I work, the twirl of my hands grounding my emotions. Using the fingers of my left hand, I rake the sticky mixture from my right hand into the bowl, wasting nothing. I know the rhythm of this poem by heart.”
Brenda Sutton Rose

Brenda Sutton Rose
“I pour buttermilk into the crater and work the mixture until it is pasty. Using my fingers, I pull dry flour into the wet ingredients, building on the dough, kneading it, drawing meal from the sides. My fingers make small circles while my hand makes a larger circular motion, working around the bowl.”
Brenda Sutton Rose

Ray Bradbury
“Grandma, he had often wanted to say, Is this where the world began? For surely it had begun in no other than a place like this. The kitchen, without doubt, was the center of creation, all things revolved about it; it was the pediment that sustained the temple.
Eyes shut to let his nose wander, he snuffed deeply. He moved in the hell-fire steams and sudden baking-powder flurries of snow in this miraculous climate where Grandma, with the look of the Indies in her eyes and the flesh of two warm hens in her bodice, Grandma of the thousand arms, shook, basted, whipped, beat, minced, diced, peeled, wrapped, salted, stirred.
Blind, he touched his way to the pantry door. A squeal of laughter rang from the parlor, teacups tinkled. But he moved on into the cool underwater green and wild-persimmon country where the slung and hanging odor of creamy bananas ripened silently and bumped his head. Gnats fizzed angrily about vinegar cruets and his ears.
He opened his eyes. He saw bread waiting to be cut into slices of warm summer cloud, doughnuts strewn like clown hoops from some edible game. The faucets turned on and off in his cheeks. Here on the plum-shadowed side of the house with maple leaves making a creek-water running in the hot wind at the window he read spice-cabinet names.”
Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

T. Kingfisher
“Don't ask me where the cookies get the dances they do--this batch had been doing hornpipes. The last batch did waltzes, and the one before that hade performed a decidedly lewd little number that had even made Aunt Tabitha blush. A little too much spice in those, I think.”
T. Kingfisher, A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking

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