Feast Quotes

“She held her gaze on him for a moment, then dropped it to the peach in her hands. Sun-warmed, pink-blushed, down-soft. It was a lovely thing to hold. She lifted it to her cheek, her nose, her lips. Pulled in the sweet, bright, lemon-and-rose-petal scent, reveled in the beauty of peach skin and fuzz and leaf. In memory of the last peach she had eaten in this place. To give thanks for this one too. Pearly-white-fleshed, bursting with juice. She sucked hard as she bit into it, to not drench herself as Frog had done. She was flooded nonetheless. With the joy of it, with every sweet taste of it. It sang a divine melody, bright and sharp and tangy, mellow and dark-honeyed. Ambrosial. It filled her mouth. It filled her soul. It drew a line, in all its tangled detail, between the last peach eaten there and this peach. It was the best peach, the second-best peach. The same peach. It held the far-off Mediterranean gardens of its origins, and the Kentish soil from which it grew. It was something new to add to the rich diversity of her sense memories, and something to hold apart, on its own. It washed through her. Turned a page in her heart. Unfurled something there that she had coiled so tightly, she had forgotten how violently she did so. She was unfurled now, ready to spring, to live.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“Rosemary, aromatic, dominant but so very dear. Thyme, its cousin, but quieter, with a lemony edge. Basil, sweet basil, greener than the greenest thing, lifter of spirits.
She closed her eyes a minute, then fixed them on an overgrown plant close by, pulled a narrow yellow-green leaf. She put it between her fingers, rubbed them together, put them to her nose. Grassy and anise-fresh. She beamed.
“Yes! Tarragon. That’ll go well with our cheese. What do you think?”
She pulled another leaf, handed it to Frog. He put it to his nose, into his mouth, nodded wildly. He loved it too, then, this aniseed, verdant herb. It would chime with the milky saltiness of the cheese; it would complete it. Her grandfather had known this, had loved his herbs.
She dashed away a tear, felt the lump in her throat rise. Remembering the soup, the particular herb, mint, that he had asked for. It reached her now, stirred by her hands among the leaves. Mint, peppery and clean. The memory of him was in every plant, every color, every texture of this place. Every taste. They brought her grandfather to her. His loss, but also him standing there, hoe in hand.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“It was there! Gentle, gradual, but it was all there. The bosky earth, the pale moist scents of the sun-warmed air. The sweet tang of nearby cattle. The hundred green aromas this countryside had always brought her: ancient, dark green, leaf of oak and ash, sharp pine. The fresh and ever-present back-note of grass, herbal, mellowed by the residue of that morning's dew. And the hops, funky with spice, with the new wood and bright fruit of the vine.
They plunged into the kitchen garden, assailed then with a whole new section of the orchestra of green scents, plus a choir of floral top notes. Her eyes scanned between the flowers, the overgrown tendrils and thorns. What was edible? What was good?”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“Her nose filled only with the myriad green smells of a garden at dusk in late summer, and the promise of her peach. She lifted it to her nose, her cheek. If she could have done, she would have preserved that moment for all time, that peach.
She bit into it, unhurried, reverent. It was warm to the stone, its white flesh pearly with juice. Juice ran joyous down her chin. Too juicy to contain. It was honeyed, sweet and sharp, fragrant with tender ripeness, with the sea breeze that had whisked it to her, with the sun-drenched garden on the Mediterranean in which it had grown. It was a flavor to etch deep among her deeply etched taste memories. Startling in its purity, its call to a far-off tree, its link to a near and precious love.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“Ah, Turkish delight. I bet you’ve never tasted such a thing.”
Lord Hawkdale proffered her a gilded dish, piled with seashell-pink, powder-dusted nuggets.
“Your mother doesn’t like them.” He barked a laugh and shot Judith a grin. “But you, little one, with so much of the exotic about you…”
They glowed, the sweets. Candlelight glancing through each small, translucent chunk. A scent rose off them, blocking out the room. More insistent than the fact she was full, too full, already. More important than her mother’s fingers gripping the stem of her glass, her tight lips. Minha reached out a hand, lifted one sweet away from the pile, and bit into it. It revealed an interior like jelly, like rose-tinted glass. The powder was sweet, sugar-dust; it dissolved on her tongue on impact.
“Oh!”
Her eyes widened, and she lifted them to see round dark eyes smiling encouragement. For a moment, just a moment, she thought of a father she didn’t know.
Lord Hawkdale was still, his hand against her neck. She breathed, focused on the tastes filling her senses, took a step away.
“Soft sugar, and lemons,” she began. “There’s something else. Something… it can’t be, but it tastes like roses smell, like the pale pink ones in Regent’s Park near the statue.”
“Judith, you’ve got a budding connoisseur on your hands.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“A towering talent. A tower of talent. It was a dessert, yes. But it was sculpture. It was architecture. It was a representation of Château de Bellefalaise served up on a silver salver. The foundations were of sablé biscuit, surrounded by a scattering of candied green peel for grass, of pink praline hazelnuts for flowers. The building rose out of this, layers of génoise sponge cake, sweet pastry cream, interspersed with nougatine, for crunch, for structure. The round towers were encircled by toasted golden langues de chat biscuits. The archway was delineated with almonds, with slices of sweet prune. The high hats of the tower roofs, the weathercocks, the filigree, were crafted with caramel: spun, molded, dark and at the edge of bitter. And the courtyard, had this been forgotten? Of course not. Its pale expanse was rendered by a sea— smooth-surfaced, improbably held in place by a meringue wall—of syllabub. Syllabub scented with sweet Beaumes de Venise wine and aromatic ginger.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“Gentle, powerfully comforting, the chestnuts spoke of freshly baked rolls and hot potatoes, of the burnt edges of a Christmas cake, of sweet apple, and of the high old trees in Kent where they were harvested.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“Rich and fruity, honeyed sweet and gently aromatic— the chef must have added some cinnamon to the mix as he dried them. And the plum itself, a variety she didn't know. Full and a little floral. Something a cut above even the plums her grandfather had grown in Kent. Delicious!”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“She could distinguish each element of the potato dish: the potatoes themselves, gently vegetal, their cloak of hot buttered cream, a black-note of garlic, a whisper of nutmeg. Matthieu had told her how it was made, proud to be cooking, not at the sinks that evening. The warm, subtle waft of Camilla’s bread, piled high in a basket and at the back of the procession, made Minha smile. But the duck was the star of the show. She detected red wine in the glaze, still a little tangy, offsetting the sweet, earthy meat. The darkly caramelized skin, that would be crispy, irresistible from Gustave’s efforts at the rotisserie.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“It was a market. She hung back as she found it, better to take it in, to manage her overloaded senses a moment before she tried to step closer, step in. Market stalls laden with the bright fruits of high summer, with verdant banks of vegetables, glistening with newly caught fish. The multilayered sweetness of every fruit in season— some she knew: apricots, grapes, greengages; some she didn’t. The slick saline memory of the deep, from the arrested body of each fish and crab. Each new scent she encountered was a puzzle, a challenge to the senses, to her memory. But there were a dozen here, a hundred. She reeled a moment. Steadied herself, feet to cobbles. Roasted meat and toasted pastry. The funk of horse manure, the bitter tang of coffee. The many-colored perfumes of late-morning townsfolk, sweat and cotton, youth and age, hair and soap, garlic-on-skin and hunger-on-breath.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast

“Minha's gift was her sense of taste. Her ability to savor. Big, bold tango and fandango on her tongue. The shift, the hint, the smallest component of flavor eked out and found, considered, remembered. When the unwanted fairy godmother, unseen and unknown, turned up at her birth, she did not bequeath a prophecy, or a fairy-tale ending. No. She endowed the infant Minha with the ability to experience, wildly, vividly, appetite.”
― Catherine Kurtz, Feast