Kitchen Cupboard Quotes & Sayings

This is not what I had in mind," she muttered to Bill,who was hovering,always,on the rim of the cupboard next to her washtub. She still wasn't used to being the only one in the kitchen who could see him. It made her nervous every time he hovered over other members of the staff,making dirty jokes that only Luce could hear and no one-besides Bill-ever laughed at.
"You children of the millenium have absolutely no work ethic," he said. "Keep your voice down,by the way."
Luce unclenched her jaw. "If scrubbing this disgusting soup tureen had anything to do with understanding my past, my work ethic would make your head spin. But this is pointless." She waved a cast iron skillet in Bill's face.Its handle was slick with pork grease. "Not to mention nauseating. — Lauren Kate

Polenta is one of those ingredients that in many homes spends its days at the back of the kitchen cupboard, on the 'no one knows quite what to do with it' shelf. — Yotam Ottolenghi

She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O'Connor and leaned against his leg.
Mr. O'Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. "I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook."
Silence lifted her chin. "You're a pirate, Mr. O'Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet."
He gave her an ironic look. "Aye, amazin', isn't it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded." He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. "And me dog smells like a whorehouse."
Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. "The only soap we could find was rose scented. — Elizabeth Hoyt

If there's something in the kitchen I like, it must be eaten. I try not to leave any snacks I wouldn't want to eat on a daily basis in the cupboard. — Jenna Ushkowitz

Set the basketball on the kitchen table. Open a cupboard, get out a bottle of sesame seeds, and place a single seed beside the basketball. If you were to reduce the Earth to the size of a basketball, all the fresh surface water on the planet - all those rivers and lakes and ponds and streams - would fit inside that one tiny sesame seed. Add a second sesame seed; now you have all the usable underground water as well. Is fresh water a scarce resource? — William Ashworth

Not surprisingly, the kitchen was the most interesting, but only because I discovered a package of Oreos in the cupboard. — Lois Greiman

Mama had her little cough. Once or twice, some quiet sobbing, out of sight ... Or the slamming of kitchen cupboard doors. That was her language. — David Small

As I completed dinner preparation, Rosie set the table - not the conventional dining table in the living room, but a makeshift table on the balcony, created by taking a whiteboard from the kitchen wall and placing it on top of the two big plant pots, from which the dead plants had been removed. A white sheet from the linen cupboard had been added in the role of tablecloth. Silver cutlery - a housewarming gift from my parents that had never been used - and the decorative wineglasses were on the table. She was destroying my apartment! — Graeme Simsion

As the sky behind the Eddy Match Factory across the river filled with light, the steady timbre of the water and rapids became sentences spoken in a soft female voice and Eileen accepted, without surprise, the presence of her mother's lost words. So this is what it is to be away, her mother's voice told her. You are never present where you stand. You see the polished dishes in your kitchen cupboard throwing back the hearth light, but they know neither you nor the meals you have taken from their surfaces. Your flagstones are a series of dark lakes that you scour, and the light that touches and alters them sends you unspeakable messages. Waves arch like mantles over everything that burns. Each corner is a secret and your history is a lie. — Jane Urquhart

She got up and went to her tiny kitchen. On the way she turned on her radio. "You want something to eat?" she called over her shoulder.
"What do you have?"
"Um ... " She opened her refrigerator. "Milk, yogurt, and wilted lettuce." She checked her cupboard. "Cheerios. Instant grits. Sorry
I figured that since this is technically the South, I should try grits. Ah-hah! Pop-Tarts."
"Pop-Tarts! All right," he said enthusiastically. He came to join her as she loaded the toaster. "Life. It just doesn't get any better than this. You and Pop-Tarts. — Katherine Applegate

I Want Something of Yours for Comfort When I Sleep

Awake before the cupboard slams open.
These hours scrape by like snow shovels.
I have dreamed of you again.
Too late, you said, for me, but not for you,
With the folly of a train darkening
In the failing embers of winter.

So I went on, flapping through time like a saw
In the wind, or like a melting fist
Weaned on the hardy light of day,
While the fading of our modesties
Blossomed into a cancer on love's faulty tongue.
And now your hair flames brightly in my kitchen cups. — Noelle Kocot

She's always sniffing the bottles in the spice cabinet."
I didn't know she'd even noticed. At first it was just curiosity; why did fennel and cumin, identical twins, have such opposing personalities? I had crushed the seeds beneath my fingertips, where the scents lingered for hours. Another day I'd opened a bottle of nutmeg, startled when the little spheres came rattling out in a mothball-scented cloud. How could something so delicate have such a ferocious smell? And I watched, fascinated, as the supple, plump, purple vanilla beans withered into brittle pods and surrendered their perfume to the air. The spices were all so interesting; it was impossible to walk through the kitchen without opening the cupboard to find out what was going on in there. — Ruth Reichl

French toast? Frittata?
Definitely frittata.
Leaving the table again, she transferred a small packet from freezer to fridge. It was salmon, home-smoked on the island and more delicious than any she had ever found elsewhere. Smoked salmon wasn't Cecily's doing, but the dried basil and thyme she took from the herb rack were. Taking a vacuum-sealed package of sun-dried tomatoes from the cupboard, she set it on the counter beside the herbs. Frittata, hot biscuits, and fruit salad. With mimosas. And coffee. That sounded right. Eaten out on the deck maybe?
No, not on the deck, unless the prevailing winds turned suddenly warm.
They would eat here in the kitchen, with whatever flowers the morning produced. Surely more lavender. A woman could never have enough lavender- or daylilies or astilbe, neither of which should bloom this early, but both of which had looked further along than the lavender, yesterday morning, so you never knew. — Barbara Delinsky