Pancakes Quotes

Quotes tagged as "pancakes" (showing 1-21 of 21)
Brandon Mull
“I like pancakes.”
Brandon Mull

Tove Jansson
“Someone who eats pancakes and jam can't be so awfully dangerous. You can talk to him.”
Tove Jansson, Finn Family Moomintroll

Zach Helm
“Dr. Jules Hilbert: Hell Harold, you could just eat nothing but pancakes if you wanted.

Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey, I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes, I want to live! I mean, who in their right mind in a choice between pancakes and living chooses pancakes?

Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you pause to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life being led... and, of course, the quality of the pancakes. ”
Zach Helm, Stranger Than Fiction: The Shooting Script

Craig Johnson
“There are only three major vote getting days in Absoroka County, and I can't remember the other two. "Oh God, no. It's Pancake Day." I thought about shooting myself. I could see the headlines: Sheriff shoots self, unable to face pancakes.”
Craig Johnson, The Cold Dish

Sarra Manning
“I realised something else tonight. Something about pancakes.’

‘What about them?’

‘We both got so obsessed about that first pancake being thrown away that we forgot something really important,’ Max explained. ‘That first pancake tastes just as good as all the other ones. It’s not its fault that it was first in line and the pan wasn’t hot enough so it got a bit lumpy and misshapen.’

‘And when you’re really famished that first pancake tastes better than all the ones that come after it,’ Neve said, and then she couldn’t wait any longer. Her arms were around Max before she’d even finished forming the thought, but his arms were around her too in that exact same moment.

Just having him there to hold, warm and solid and real, was enough for five seconds, and then she was peppering his face with kisses – his forehead, his eyebrows, the tip of his crooked nose, along his cheekbones until she reached the glittering prize of his mouth.

Sometimes Neve thought that her appetite was the most robust thing about her, and she didn’t kiss Max so much as she devoured him. Graceless, messy kisses without any thought or reason, but simply because she hungered for him. Kissed him with everything she had and everything she was, and she didn’t know why she could kiss Max and have him kiss her back with the same fierceness but still be greedy for the next kiss and the one after that and the one after that and the one…”
Sarra Manning, You Don't Have to Say You Love Me

Kathleen Flinn
“I don't have to tell you I love you. I fed you pancakes.”
Kathleen Flinn, Burnt Toast Makes You Sing Good: A Memoir of Food and Love from an American Midwest Family

“We both disliked rude rickshwalas, shepu bhaji in any form, group photographs at weddings, lizards, tea that has gone cold, the habit of taking newspaper to the toilet, kissing a boy who'd just smoked a cigarette et cetra.
Another list. The things we loved: strong coffee, Matisse, Rumi, summer rain, bathing together, Tom Hanks, rice pancakes, Cafe Sunrise, black-and-white photographs, the first quiet moments after you wake up in the morning.”
Sachin Kundalkar, Cobalt Blue

Kristen Day
“There was no time for chit-chat when there were chocolate chip pancakes to be eaten.”
Kristen Day, Forsaken

Crystal Woods
“I had a dream about you last night. You were at my door. We had forgotten what we used to fight about. So, I let you in and we made coconut pancakes like it was the very first time.”
Crystal Woods, Dreaming is for lovers

Christine Feehan
“Maybe love was a woman feeding him pancakes. Maybe it was someone sitting across from him sipping orange juice just to please him.”
Christine Feehan, Water Bound

Margaux Froley
“Okay, so let's say we're all in the bubble. What's tonight then? Part of the bubble too? Because, it can't be all bad if there's Nutter Butter pancakes, right?"

He flashed a crooked smile. "This? This is a blip in the bubble. A glitch in the matrix. This is the ultimate not-supposed to.”
Margaux Froley, Escape Theory

Michael Paterniti
“Take your hallowed halls of Congress or the littered floor of the Stock Exchange, America is built on its pancake houses!”
Michael Paterniti, Driving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America with Einstein's Brain

Nick Harkaway
“The sergeants are shunted forward and they blink and stare up at Gonzo as he leans on the edge of his giant mixing bowl. MacArthur never addressed his troops from a mixing bowl--not even one made from a spare geodesic radio emplacement shell--and certainly de Gaulle never did. But Gonzo Lubitsch does, and he does it as if a whole long line of commanders were standing at his shoulder, urging him on.

"Gentlemen," says Gonzo softly, "holidays are over. I need an oven, and I need one in about twenty minutes, or these fine flapjacks will go to waste, and that is not happening."

And something about this statement and the voice in which he says it makes it clear that this is simply true. One way or another, this thing will get done. Under a layer of grime and horror, these two are soldiers, and more, they are productive, can-do sorts of people. Rustily but with a gratitude which is not so far short of worship, they say "Yes, sir" and are about their business.”
Nick Harkaway, The Gone-Away World

Marjorie Weinman Sharmat
“Would you like some more pancakes?" Annie asked. I could tell that Annie was a smart girl. I hate to eat on the job. But I must keep up my strength.”
Marjorie Weinman Sharmat, Nate the Great

Seanan McGuire
“Tell me what you know."
"I'm awake and you're not pancakes.”
Seanan McGuire, Once Broken Faith

Stacey Ballis
“Yep," I say, cutting a large slice of the Dutch Baby pancake and sliding it onto her plate along with two pieces of thick-sliced bacon. Then I serve myself, the fluffy pancake, doused in butter and lemon and confectioners' sugar, the bacon perfectly crispy and salty.
"What happened? 'Cause that is some full-service lawyering; I'm clearly with the wrong firm. Damn this thing is delicious," she says in a rush, forking a large piece of pancake into her mouth and rolling her eyes.
"I know, right?" I take a small bite, letting the flavors mingle, the light pancake, the tart lemon, the sweet sugar. Perfection.”
Stacey Ballis, Out to Lunch

Lisa Daily
“The fish is that perfect, amazing guy it can never work out with—you know, a bird and a fish may fall in love—but where would they live? . . . So the fish is your total dream guy, he’s smart, he’s handsome, he gets all your jokes, he loves to talk, he gives you a nine-hour orgasm and then makes you homemade chocolate chip pancakes and serves you breakfast in bed—but he lives all the way across the country and neither of you can move, or he’s married, or next in line for the throne, or he has a terminal disease or something . . . the fish.”
Lisa Daily, Single-Minded

Favel Parrett
“We drove to a place in Sandy Bay, right near the beach. They had so many things on the menu, but mostly they had lots of different types of pancakes. Pancakes with blueberries, pancakes with bacon and eggs, pancakes with baked banana and maple syrup.
My brother’s serving had so much whipped cream on top that he had to dig a tunnel through the cream to get to the pancakes. He was full after about ten mouthfuls, and he seemed genuinely sad to leave so much behind. He’d tried his best but the pancakes had won.”
Favel Parrett, When the Night Comes

Michelle Cuevas
“Found in trees. Sometimes also in old silent movie theaters, seaside zoos, magic shops, hat shops, time-travel shops, topiary gardents, cowboy boots, castle turrets, comet museums, dog pounds, mermaid ponds, dragon lairs, library stacks (the ones in the back), piles of leaves, piles of pancakes, the belly of a fiddle, the bell of a flower, or in the company of wild herds of typewriters.
But mostly in trees.”
Michelle Cuevas, Confessions of an Imaginary Friend

“Pancakes were meant to be flipped!”
Anthony T. Hincks

Erica Bauermeister
“Mrs. Cohen cooked, too- beef stew that had simmered all day, pancakes that weren't pancakes but a combination of potatoes and onions and warmth that floated through the apartment and snuck into the pockets of his coat. And something she called a kugel, its name as playful as the smell of vanilla and sugar and cinnamon that came from the oven. But Al's favorite thing about being with Mrs. Cohen was Friday night. When he arrived, the apartment would be filled with the fragrance of chicken soup and there was always fresh-baked bread, its surface brown and glistening, lying in a fancy braid across the counter.”
Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing