Verbal Salt Quotes

“I have come for a throne this time."
He smiled, and my legs wobbled with relief.
"Have you?" he said. "Well, why not? This kingdom has been ruled by halfbloods and housekeepers; a mortal queen is hardly going to lower us further."
And just like that, I was on solid ground. Solider, at any rate; whatever else this man was, he was every bit as snobbish as the majority of the courtly fae.
"Why not take the throne yourself, if you are so bothered by the pedigree of its previous occupants?" I asked, which was brazen, but then many of the courtly fae are charmed by boldness in mortals, in much the same way that we coo when a kitten bares its teeth.
He snorted. "I value my neck, that's why. Which I have managed to keep intact for many centuries--- far longer than those who covet power in this bloody wolf's den of a court."
This was so far from what I had expected that I was silent for a moment. "Wise of you," I said.
The malicious amusement was back. "Thank you--- I cannot tell you how highly I value the opinions of mortals, particularly young girls who cannot stop themselves from stumbling into violent faerie realms.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“This ain't no time for you to be a deadbeat sister. Again."
I gasped. "Deadbeat? Again?"
Kerresha dragged her suitcase up the steps, now.
"Absent. Estranged. Not present. Whatever you want to call it." The words erupted from her mouth like a geyser.”
― Michelle Stimpson, Sisters with a Side of Greens

“I didn't know if you were still living... in sin. I didn't want a bad influence in his life."
I spoke past the growing lump in my throat. "I'm not a monster. Just because I naively fell in love with a semi-divorced man doesn't mean I would have harmed your son. Jesus! You'd think I spent most of my life on death row by the way you talk about me when I've never seen the inside of a jail. Unlike Warren Sr.!"
To this day, I have no idea why I had to tack on that part about Marvina's deceased husband. It was petty, but seeing as we were already wallowing in the muddy puddles of our past, what difference did it make?
"He wasn't a jailbird," Marvina spat back. "He only went in once for a ticket he didn't pay before the deadline." She opened the oven and slid the onion skins inside next to the peppers.
"Don't I know this already. I hope the forty dollars of mine that you put toward his bail served the both of y'all well.”
― Michelle Stimpson, Sisters with a Side of Greens

“Puddin' and Duchess have been best friends since the day they met."
"Looks a bit more than just friendly to me," Thad said. "Looks like Puddin' has a better love life than I do."
"Probably because he's more approachable," she said.”
― Farrah Rochon, Pardon My Frenchie

“She doesn't want to go either," Ashanti said.
"Well, you make them," Anita said.
"No. They're sixteen, not ten. The girls can decide how they want to spend their weekend, and no one will force them do anything they don't want to do."
"You're behind this, aren't you?" Anita hissed. "You're turning my brother's children against me."
Ashanti had heard this song too many times. She was not up for a repeat.
"Look, I have to go. You have both Kara's and Kendra's phone numbers. Call and ask if they want to go shopping for plants with you. Like I said, they're old enough to make their own decisions. There's no need for me to play the middleman.”
― Farrah Rochon, Pardon My Frenchie

“Someone needs to be concerned about those girls."
"Kara and Kendra know that I am only a phone call away."
"Would you even answer the phone if you're laid up under some man?"
Line. Crossed.
Ashanti closed the distance between them, until she was barely a foot away. "Apparently, you didn't hear me the first time," she said. "Who I fuck is none of your business."
Anita gasped, her head snapping back. Her mouth opened and closed but no words came out.
"I should petition the courts!" she finally screeched. "Get those girls away from you!"
"Try it," Ashanti said.
"You shouldn't be raising my brother's children!"
"I am tired of your bullshit, Anita. You hadn't talked to your 'beloved' brother for over three years before he died. I know my dad tried to contact you, and you ignored him."
"He was not your father!"
"Fuck you! He is my father. He loved me and treated me like his own flesh and blood. You, on the other hand, who actually was his flesh and blood, didn't want anything to do with him until he was buried in the ground. And all because he took your mother's dishes."
"It was her wedding china and it was mine!" Anita said. "And it has nothing to do with you."
"No, it doesn't. I don't care why you cut your own brother out of your life. What I do care about are my sisters. You talk about wanting to raise Kara and Kendra? You live an hour away and saw them five times in the first ten years of their lives.
"I know what this is, it's guilt," Ashanti continued. "But you don't get to alleviate the shame and regret you feel at the way you treated your own brother by making my sisters' lives hell.”
― Farrah Rochon, Pardon My Frenchie

“I don't want her. I want you."
"I didn't see you making any effort to push her away." My voice cracked, broke. I couldn't stop the painful mental replay of the Bloomingdale scene. It was on a permanent loop in my mind.
"She had a gun in her pocket," Jack said.
"Are you sure that wasn't you?”
― Sara Desai, 'Til Heist Do Us Part

“I grabbed one of the plants he had given me and shoved it into his hands. "Take it. I killed it. Just like you killed our relationship by never being there when I needed you. Just like you killed it again by asking me to meet you so you could get your revenge. Good-bye."
"It's not dead," he pointed out. "It just needs a little love."
"Then give it to Clare."
"She's not a loving type. She's an evil, using, betraying, double-crossing type. Not like you, sweetheart."
"Don't sweetheart me," I snapped. "Your fake seduction won't work here. Clearly, the only thing that is a danger to me is you.”
― Sara Desai, 'Til Heist Do Us Part

“You're calling me shallow? So you know so much about this, huh? Which restaurants have you worked in?" He held his hands out. "Where are your scars?"
I stiffened. I shouldn't have to pour out any of my pain for him to take me seriously. "I don't have to have worked in a restaurant to know what makes cooking really good," I snapped.
He folded his arms like a sulky fourteen-year-old. "Then educate me."
That clearly wasn't an invitation, but screw it. I stood up and planted my hands on the table. "Caring. I don't mean for the details. I mean caring for the person who's going to eat it. Giving them a little piece of what you love the most." I jabbed my finger at my plate. "All of these dishes, they're just about showing off."
He rubbed his forearm hard, his face stony. "But I won Fire on High. I'm kind of a big deal, in case you didn't know. I think it's OK for me to show off."
I held up a finger. "You won one competition," I said slowly, contempt sneaking into my voice. "This year. Can you name the person who won two years ago? Three? Unless you take this seriously, your book will gather dust in a remainder pile somewhere, a historical record of a leprechaun in a stupid bandanna who was famous for a hot second."
The stone in his expression crumbled away. Bright green eyes flashed, hands clenched. His mouth opened and closed, and finally he hissed, "Who the fuck are you to tell me that? You're nobody. You can't even get your own name on a book. Who gives a shit what you think?"
My voice shot high with anger. "I'm the woman who has to clean up your mess, you entitled, arrogant brat."
It was quiet. Not the silence of people eating delicious food. It was post-atomic-bomb explosion quiet.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn

“Since you're not enjoying yourself, perhaps you and Ms. Salazar would like to leave?"
"That's probably wise." Kieran was glaring at me, and I said to Nicole, "In-N-Out sound good to you? I'm starving."
Bull's-eye. Kieran opened his mouth, but Mrs. Hutton clamped her hand onto his forearm.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn

“I baked all those cakes, and I didn't want them to just sit."
"You could have told me," I said through gritted teeth.
"I'm sure I wasn't missed," Sabrina replied.
I looked back at Dante, who was ignoring the conversation in favor of chatting through his Bluetooth earpiece neck thingy.
"What do you sell?" I asked Tameka.
"I make jams and jellies. Chowchow."
"It's so delicious," Sabrina added.
I cocked an eyebrow at my sister.
"Sabrina had a great sales day. Most of her cakes sold out." Tameka turned to Sabrina. "How many jars did you sell?"
"Thirty-four," Sabrina said, cutting her eyes away from me.
Thirty-four. In one morning? At a farmers market? I couldn't believe it. A sting of resentment settled around my heart. I didn't know why that bothered me so much.
Tameka looked at my cake tray and said to Sabrina, "The little jars would fit nicely at events like this."
Once again, my uninventive and un-unique dessert display was dissed.”
― Rhonda McKnight, Bitter and Sweet

“Don't pay any mind to Delilah. Our grandma Belle calls her ornery."
Which is why I liked Grandma Maeve better.
The nasty boy looked at me from under the inky fringe of his bangs when he answered her. "It does."
I blew a raspberry. "Stating an opinion contrary to others isn't being ornery; it's called having a working brain. Sorry you two don't know anything about that.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“Tater Tot is not a nickname," I snapped. "It's an insult, and you're welcome to have it."
"No." She shook her head, sending her straight hair over her shoulders in a glinting wave. "I'd need something else. Something to signify our deep connection."
I held in my gag admirably, but I found myself speaking without forethought. "How about 'Mirror'? Since you both love gazing into them."
As soon as I said it, I knew it was unkind. Sam's pretty face flushed bright pink, and she launched herself from the foot of my bed.
"Sam, I didn't mean---"
"No," she cut in sharply. "You said what you said. You know, Saint is right; you can't help but pick people apart."
"Excuse me while I choke on the irony," I shot back.
"Always with a joke," Sam said, even though I hadn't been joking. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Your problem is that you don't know how to play the game."
"The game? Life isn't a game."
"Bullshit. It always has been and always will be. Smile whether you want to or not; compliment the people in position to help you or have your back." She counted her points off on her fingers. "When everyone assumes you're the sweetest, most helpful or honest person in their world, they'll let you get away with anything."
"This is what you think I should be?" I cut in. "A fake schemer?"
Sam shrugged then. "Fake or not, it's how the most successful people get ahead. They plot, forge alliances, and they execute their plans."
"If that's success, then I want no part of it. I'd rather fail and have a conscience.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“Don't pay any mind to Delilah. Our grandma Belle calls her ornery."
Which is why I liked Grandma Maeve better.
Sam's cute nose wrinkled then. "I think that just means grumpy."
The nasty boy looked at me from under the inky fringe of his bangs when he answered her. "It does."
I blew a raspberry. "Stating an opinion contrary to others isn't being ornery; it's called having a working brain. Sorry you two don't know anything about that.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“Have to keep your ass in tip-top shape for all those screen flashes?"
He pauses, and the air becomes too close as his gaze glides over me, a smile oozing out--- smug and heated. "Why, Delilah, have you been watching my ass on screen?"
"No. But Sam has. Can't say it was enough to keep her around, though, eh?”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“I have fans who look at me the way you're looking at that stove."
"Their priorities are out of whack.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“You should listen to your assistant. She clearly understands about fattening foods."
Her tone is not kind. And I'm done being polite. Or quiet.
I turn to North, who is sprawled back in his chair, blue eyes alight with undisguised anticipation. An ally I desperately need. "Tell me something..."
"Anything, babe."
I kind of love him just then. Because I know, I know, he's calling me babe to irritate Macon. It's in his eyes and the way his mouth twists to hold back laughter.
"Do agents in this town take Cliché Bitch 101 classes around here?"
A muscle in his lower jaw twitches while Karen huffs out a sound of annoyance.
"Pretty sure they offer a special discount at UCLA."
We both grin.
"All right," Macon cuts in. "That's enough."
I shoot him a look. Tell that to Ms. Sunset Boulevard.
And he returns one of his own. Behave.
Make. Me.
His answering grin is crafty. "Later."
"Later for what?" Karen demands in a snit.
"To perform my other services." I dab the corner of my mouth. Because fuck her.
Macon chokes on a sip of his water. North, however, just laughs, a big booming sound.
"I like her," he says to a glowering Macon.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“I say fire her." Arnie sticks his tongue out at me. "She's getting wide in the caboose, anyway. She's no longer an asset to the station."
"You fire me after that comment and you'll have a sexual harassment suit slapped on your own ass before you're out the elevator." I stick out my tongue in reply.”
― Sarah Strohmeyer, Sweet Love

“At the end of the day, I lose nothing. I'd go as far as to say that it's you who'll be losing something. You'll be losing the first person who's understood you. Things will just go back to how they were for you. Back to how they were in Agano, when everybody ignored you."
The grapeskins ruptured. Rika could see it happening. Just a little further, Rika thought. Her armpits grew sweaty. She had to appeal to her senses, gradually draw Kajii into her rhythm. It wouldn't do to rush.
"Visiting Agano, I started for the first time to feel genuinely sorry for you. Maybe if you'd had someone like Reiko in your life--- it wouldn't have mattered if they were a man or a woman, just someone you could talk to about what was on your mind--- then things wouldn't have worked out this way. Maybe then you wouldn't have needed to be so impossibly self-contained, to do everything on your own. If I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, I could have easily ended up like you.”
― Polly Barton, Butter

“You're as boring as one of them now. Like a mortal pretending to be Folk. Why don't you just go back to their world, brother?"
Wendell's eyes narrowed. "You, on the other hand, have only grown more like the old queen. Or, rather, a poor copy--- plenty of spite and jealousy, but lacking her imagination."
The girl's face went white. "The true queen will have you quartered and hung from the battlements, along with those stupid mortals you care so much for."
"Your opinion of mortals is so low," Wendell said. "Yet one of them was your mother's undoing. How does it feel to be proven a fool?"
"My mother is not dead," she spat, and for a moment I thought she was going to lunge at him. "She cares too much about the realm to--- to---"
"To die?" Wendell gave a quiet laugh. "If only there were protection in that! Alas. Our father cared a great deal for the realm, too. But then, you were too young--- I doubt you remember him much. Well, let us go and see what our mother's malice has wrought upon our beloved realm, and then we shall see if there is anything in you but her worst qualities.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“Killing is why I exist," she said finally. "It is my only love. I used to struggle with my temper, but now I embrace it. You cannot fathom how many I have slain, both mortal and Folk. Why should a little nothing like you be the end of me?"
"You know why," I said. "Because it would be a fitting conclusion."
She gave me the sort of look that reminded me of Razkarden when he sizes up a potential meal. The shadow in the room seemed to deepen, redden, and grow damp, a slippery damp I felt through my shoes. I only waited. "Well?" I said.
She seemed to deflate slightly, and the illusion vanished. "You wish to find the door to Death?" she said, a slyness entering her voice. "Very well. I will tell you how. But I must be allowed to depart this realm unharmed."
I could see she expected me to protest or bargain with her. "Done," I said.
Her lip curled. "Such a dull little thing," she said. "You have no spirit worth breaking, I see. You are not like your grandfather at all."
"And you are not as frightening as you think you are," I said.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“I'm the one with the magic tongue. The one who's been tasting the Dead for twenty years. And it was me--- not you--- that brought one of them back. What've you ever done, Spiritual Artist? Burned some incense? Shuffled some cards? Made a snap judgment about someone and used it to give them bad advice?"
Maura glared at him for a deafening moment, something hot simmering behind her eyes.
"You have no idea the things I've done."
"Try me."
"Hard pass." She gave a small, mean smirk.
"Fine. Whatever." He slid his chair back, stood up.
"But if it'd been me," she added, "tasting those spirits? I sure as hell wouldn't wait twenty years to do something about it."
"That's not fair."
"No? You just said you didn't try anything till last week. And the result got you so spooked you're, what, consulting a party psychic? Well. You already got my advice, so here's a snap judgment. You're a coward, Konstantin. Afraid of your own potential. More interested in self-preservation than making any sort of meaningful connection. You're paralyzed by--- oh, I dunno?--- something in your past? Death of a loved one? Am I warm? Yeah. And now you think this ghost thing makes you special. That messing with the Afterlife can somehow undo all those shitty years you've chosen to have instead of just moving on. But it won't. It'll only make it worse. So you need to just stop.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“You used me. Seduced me. Fucked me to get what you wanted. All these months, you made me think--- God, I'm such an idiot!--- you had me believing you actually loved me! And now you claim some shit went down with ghosts and a veil and you're blaming me for it? And--- and Frankie? Who's dead, by the way, so I'm not exactly sure how he figures. That about sum it up?"
"That's not fair." She felt like she was falling. "Something did go down. I saw them. I do love you."
"Bullshit." He stood up, everything itching inside, that sick sensation like he was about to hurl. "You love not being Hungry. You love yourself. You love that you can hitch a ride to the Afterlife whenever you feel like taking off my pants."
"No! Konstantin, that isn't--- that might be how it started, but it isn't how it stayed! I fell for you. It would have been so much easier if I hadn't."
"Glad we're just doing what's easy now."
He walked around the station, angry-clearing plates. The glasses of champagne. He needed to move. To keep busy. To not look at her.
Maura steadied herself on the edge of the counter, the steel a block of ice beneath her grip.
"It wasn't easy. Any of it. I'd give anything to take it back." It was hard to breathe; she couldn't get enough air. "The Hunger... it took so much from me---"
Konstantin slapped a wet kitchen towel down, the sound so loud it made her jump.
"Yeah? As much as tasting the Dead for a couple decades? Or thinking you're insane every time some mystery flavor appeared? And let's not even talk about my assorted paranoias and trust issues. But hey, you're the only one who's ever suffered, right? At least you know what you did to deserve it. My mouth just happened to be me.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste

“I'm not sure why you gave me such a personal book if you cared about it so much."
Isabella's fuse, famously long, now blew in an instant.
"I gave it to you... because I thought that maybe, somewhere, inside of you... there was the tiniest semblance of a soul."
Isabella's cheeks were bright red, as was her neck, as hot tears filled her eyes.
"What did you say?"
"I thought that maybe... maybe beneath all of the... all of the hair products and the lip gloss and the eye shadow," said Isabella, her voice shaking, along with her hands, "there was an actual human being inside of you. But... there's nothing human about you."
The look on Molly's face was one of both shock and awe at the fury stirred up in Isabella.
"You're just... an empty vessel. You're all exterior. And you'll never write a great cookbook or do anything great in your life, because... because whatever part of you was human, whatever part of you existed that could connect with other people, is gone and it's all been replaced by... by... Botox."
Isabella put her mug down and headed for the door. Molly, too stunned to speak, watched her.
As Isabella pulled open the handle, she turned back one last time:
"Good luck with the cookbook. You can delete me from your phone. I'm going to keep you in mine and change your name to an emoji, just like you did with me. Only your emoji is going to be... it's going to be a smiling piece of shit!”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“At least I can cook," said Isabella, the words bursting out of her like a spray of bullets.
"What?"
"You heard me," said Isabella. "Do you honestly think people aren't laughing at you when you make food on your Instagram? Do you know how ridiculous you look, chopping kale, hacking it like a blind executioner, and making a salad that wouldn't be good enough for a hamster cage?"
"She's just jealous," said Molly, turning to Xavier, who was watching all of this while vaping against the wall. "She can't handle the fact that I'm pretty and thin and famous and that I can do what she does just as well as she can, only I look better doing it."
"Ha!" said Isabella. "That's such a fucking laugh. Do you think you could ever make this meal?" She indicated the food in the kitchen. "Do you think, in a million years, with a million lessons and a million cookbooks and a million helpers, you could ever make a coq au vin or butternut-squash soup? I bet you don't even know how to turn on the heat.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“If I just do Molly's book, it'll go uncredited. No one will know that I worked on it. It'll do nothing for me or my career. I may as well have not written anything at all."
"But is that what this is all about for you? You and your career? Is that why you became a writer, so that people would know who you are? Or was it to do work that matters?"
This was spilling over into the same debate that they'd had on their first date. Gabe was comfortable in the shadows, setting his ego aside and staying out of the limelight. But was Gabe doing the honorable thing or the cowardly thing? What kind of career could you have--- as either a chef or a writer--- if nobody knew who you were? Isabella wasn't sure that she wanted to give up her shot at the limelight just yet.
"You can be a well-known writer who does good, meaningful work... They're not mutually exclusive," countered Isabella.
"Is it good, meaningful work when you're betraying someone who trusts you? To expose all of their secrets and stories from their private life?"
That one stung.
"It's not a betrayal when you're telling the truth," argued Isabella, repositioning herself to face Gabe.
"If someone lets you into their world," said Gabe, rolling to face her, "isn't there a presumption of privacy? I can't imagine writing a tell-all about any of the chefs that I've worked for, even when the chef was shitty. Nobody in my industry would ever do that."
"Of course they would! Haven't you ever seen The Bear?"
"The Bear's a TV show."
"But it started as a book."
"I'm pretty sure it didn't."
"The point is," said a flustered Isabella, getting out of bed, "the right choice will be obvious to me when it's time."
She said it with such conviction she almost believed it herself.
"The right choice is obvious to me now.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“Can't we just agree to disagree?" she asked.
"It's a little bigger than that," said Gabe as he got into bed.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, it's making me question your character.”
― Adam D. Roberts, Food Person

“I thought you were in L.A."
"And now I'm back," Mr. Hargrove said. "Only for the night, I'm afraid."
"A warning would've been nice."
Mr. Hargrove folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the back of the couch, a rueful smile twisting his lips. "A warning?" he repeated, then flashed a look at Rose that said, Can you believe this kid? "Like I'm a hurricane?"
Hart shrugged and held Rose's hand closer to him. "The wreckage is about the same.”
― Goldy Moldavsky, Of Earthly Delights

“Wolff's offer must have been rich!"
Iris chuckled. "Stock shares, baby."
"Oh!" Nate pantomimed a dagger to his heart.
"It pays to do the right thing. You should try it sometime.”
― Francesca Serritella, Full Bloom

“This is not what I planned for dinner. I worked all day on that salmon," Joyce said.
"Yeah, and that's probably why it caught fire," Mike said.
Joyce shot him a look.”
― Victoria Benton Frank, The Violet Hour