Spoon Bowl Quotes & Sayings

You're trying to make me crazy, aren't you?"
"Not at all." Sara put her bowl down. "I'm just saying there could be bunny shifters."
"THERE ARE NO BUNNY SHIFTERS!"
Shaking her head she accused, "You're a bunny bigot."
Zach threw his spoon back in the near-empty bowl. "And there is no such thing as bunny bigots."
"Bunny bigot," she accused again. — Shelly Laurenston

The Prodigal

Dark morning rain
Meant to fall
On a prison and a schoolyard,
Falling meanwhile
On my mother and her old dog.

How slow she shuffles now
In my father's Sunday shoes.
The dog by her side
Trembling with each step
As he tries to keep up.

I am on another corner waiting
With my head shaved.
My mind hops like a sparrow
In the rain.
I'm always watching and worrying about her.

Everything is a magic ritual,
A secret cinema,
The way she appears in a window hours later
To set the empty bowl
And spoon on the table,
And then exits
So that the day may pass,
And the night may fall
Into the empty bowl,
Empty room, empty house,
While the rain keeps
Knocking at the front door. — Charles Simic

One of those was occupied by a dwarf. Clean-shaved and pink-cheeked, with a mop of chestnut hair, a heavy brow, and a squashed nose, he perched on a high stool with a wooden spoon in hand, contemplating a bowl of purplish gruel with red-rimmed eyes. Ugly little bastard, Tyrion thought. The — George R R Martin

Zach shoveled another spoonful of Fruit Loops cereal with milk into his mouth. "It is not possible!"
"How do you know? Just because there's no proof to prove it, there's no proof to disprove it either."
"You're trying to make me crazy, aren't you?"
"Not at all." Sara put her bowl down. "I'm just saying there could be bunny shifters."
"There are no bunny shifters!"
Shaking her head she accused, "You're a bunny bigot."
Zach threw his spoon back in the near-empty bowl. "And there is no such thing as bunny bigots. — Shelly Laurenston

Gretta sits herself down at the table. Robert has arranged everything she needs: a plate, a knife, a bowl with a spoon, a pat of butter, a jar of jam. It is in such small acts of kindness that people know they are loved. — Maggie O'Farrell

I lean forward and grab the bowl of ice cream she didn't finish and pull it to my, then take a bite. She watches me as I close my lips around the spoon and pull it out of my mouth. She scrunches up her nose staring at the spoon. "I could have herpes, you know," she says. I grin at her and wink. "You somehow just made herpes sound appealing. — Colleen Hoover

Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!" "Arthur, really, this is just silly. . ." "What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?" Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl. "Mollywobbles," whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door. "Correct," said Mr. Weasley. "Now you can let me in. — J.K. Rowling

I make a bowl of it every day and pretend to eat it before you come in and snatch it off me," he answered, with a sexy smile and amused eyes. I gasped, dropping my spoon into my bowl and making a loud clatter. "Why the heck would you make a bowl and pretend to eat it? Do you like to piss me off?" I snapped. "No, Angel. I like to make you breakfast," he replied simply. I gasped at the revelation. He made them for me? — Kirsty Moseley

With all the arrangements made, Marcus carried Lillian to the largest guest room in the building, where a bath and food were sent up as quickly as possible. It was sparely furnished but very clean, with an ample bed covered in pressed linen and soft, faded quilts. An old copperplate slipper tub was set before the hearth and filled by two chambermaids carrying steaming kettles. As Lillian waited for the bathwater to cool sufficiently, Marcus bullied her into eating a bowl of soup, which was quite tolerable, though its ingredients were impossible to identify. "What are those little brown chunks?" Lillian asked suspiciously, opening her mouth reluctantly as he spooned more in.
"It doesn't matter. Swallow."
"Is it mutton? Beef? Did it originally have horns? Hooves? Feathers? Scales? I don't like to eat something when I don't know what - "
"More," he said inexorably, pushing the spoon into her mouth again.
"You're a tyrant."
"I know. Drink some water. — Lisa Kleypas

Today is one of the days when Ma is Gone.
She won't wake up properly. She's here but not really. She stays in Bed with the pillows on her head.
Silly Penis is standing up, I squish him down.
I eat my hundred cereal and I stand on my chair to wash the bowl and Meltedy Spoon. It's very quiet when I switch off the water. I wonder did Old Nick come in the night. I don't think he did because the trash bag is still by Door, but maybe he did only he didn't take the trash? Maybe Ma's not just Gone. Maybe he squished her neck even harder and now she's -
I go up really close and listen till I hear breath. I'm just one inch away, my hair touches Ma's nose and she puts her hand up over her face so I step back.
I don't have a bath on my own, I just get dressed.
There's hours and hours, hundreds of them.
Ma gets up to pee but not talking, with her face all blank. I already put a glass of water beside Bed but she just gets back under Duvet. — Emma Donoghue

Anyway, here." He handed me a bag. "Thought you might be hungry. Since you're our guests, it would be impolite if we didn't share our food with you. That's your rations for the week. Try to make it last." At my surprised look, he rolled his eyes. "Not all of us live on oil and electricity, you know."
"What about Ash and Puck?"
"Well, I'm pretty sure eating our food won't melt their insides to gooey paste. But you never know." (Glitch)
Puck sat and gazed mournfully into the bowl I handed him. "Not an apple slice to be found," he sighed, picking through the gooey mess with his fingers. "How can mortals even pass this off as fruit? It's like a peach farmer threw up in a bowl."
Ash picked up the spoon, gazing at it like it was an alien life form. — Julie Kagawa

I Imagine Them

turning some dog-eared page
tapping out a drum beat on the dash
sorting the laundry
digging for a matching sock
buried in deep pockets
breaking an egg on the side of a bowl
fingering guitar strings

Where are they now?

tenderly holding a pen to paper
furiously moving through air
in concert
with your conversation
resting assuredly on the back
of a chair

oh to be the steering wheel
or the spoon
to have your palms
pressed solidly upon me
the full fan of your fingers
curved to the slope
of my shoulders
oh to be warmed
to be wrapped
in hope
to be healed
by the laying on
of your hands — Nancy Boutilier

It's what surprised him most -- not the overpowering love all the books required that he feel for his child -- just that he simply liked being around him. And even with the diagnoisis, or even since, there's something a little joyous, alongside all the disaster, about living with Hendrick. Some feeling he gets about being in better or closer contact with the things we need, the things we want. I want to run the controls on the dump truck. I want to touch the faucet. I want to open the drawer three hundred times in a row. Because who doesn't want that from time to time? To fall deeper in? Who doesn't do it? Some mornings Jack taps his own spoon a few extra times on the rim of the cereal bowl just for the sheer pleasure of it, and then he'll wonder what the space really is, after all, between tic and illness. — Drew Perry

Child, I done had just about enough of your sackdraggin' Now get upstairs and take your bath and put some decent clothes on. You one sorry sight. You been wearing that old ratty robe since baby Jesus was born." She whacked the spoon against the bowl again, sending a glop of mayonnaise flying. "And looka that hair. Don't look at me in that tone of voice; gone and get up there while I fix this dinner. Winona, baby, go bring in the mail. I don't want this child out there cause it's too many old people in this neighborhood with bad hearts. — Rosalyn Story

Happy Camper Tip #7 Jane Ann's Apple Bars: Combine two cups whole wheat flour, one-fourth cup toasted wheat germ, two teaspoons baking soda, one teaspoon cinnamon, one teaspoon salt, and one-half teaspoon nutmeg. Set aside. In a large bowl, combine four cups diced apples, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup brown sugar, 1/2 cup oil, 1 cup chopped walnuts, 2 eggs and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Add flour mixture and blend well with a wooden spoon. Spread in a greased 13 x 9 pan and bake about 50 minutes at 350. — Karen Musser Nortman

Tag stopped, his spoon paused in mid-air. I watched as a Cheerio made a desperate dive for freedom, plopping back in the bowl, safe for another few seconds. — Amy Harmon

Curious, I asked, "Why do I scare you so much?"

"You don't scare me," she responded immediately, sounding defensive.

"Then why are your hands shaking?"

Jennifer let the spoon fall into the batter bowl and leaned against the counter, her eyes lifting for the briefest of seconds. "You don't scare me, I'm just . . . I'm just nervous."

"Why're you nervous?"

"Because . . . because . . . because you're dangerous. And I have a hard time believing your revenge plan involved anything as benign as a male stripper."

"Make no mistake, George is not benign. He is an eighty-five-year-old committed professional and brings his gun. Well, he brings both his guns. — Penny Reid

The spoon bends the world. The whole ceiling nestles in the bowl of the spoon. The bowl of the spoon cups the light in the room and serves it up. I offer my hands to receive it, themselves a cup but winged, hinged like the wings of a bird. The light in the spoon, too, flies; it has entered my eyes, but soft with the sound of wind in leaves. The leaves, my shelter. The cup, my shelter. Your hands, my shelter. The light, shelter. Who doesn't have one asks, "Who needs a house?"

A faithful spoon bends the world to offer it up as what the heart likes best to eat. A hungry heart is good at spotting spoons. The hungry spoon? Its hungriness allows it to feed the rest of us. Its emptiness my home. — Liz Waldner

The technology of food matters even when we barely notice it is there. From fire onward, there is a technology behind everything we eat, whether we recognize it or not. Behind every loaf of bread, there is an oven. Behind a bowl of soup, there is a pan and a wooden spoon (unless it comes from a can, another technology altogether). Behind every restaurant-kitchen foam, there will be a whipping canister, charged with N2O. — Bee Wilson

When I was a child, I pretended that I had my own cooking show. I would stand at the kitchen counter with an empty bowl and spoon and talk in a silly voice, explaining the concoction I was creating. — Kimberly Schlapman

I brought soup just in case you changed your mind. Are the pains easing up at all?" He manfully kept the hopeful note out of his tone.
"All the activity must have set them off. They seem to be getting farther apart, and they're shorter in duration. From all the research I've done, that means false labor."
He felt like a man given a reprieve right before a death sentence, but he kept his features expressionless. He wanted her to count on him, and she couldn't do that if she knew he was petrified of delivering a baby.
"Will you try to eat something?" He walked farther into the room and set the tray on the end table. "It might help."
She flashed him a
smile that told him he didn't know what he was talking about, but she picked up the bowl of soup and spoon, sank down in the middle of the bed, tailor fashion, her back against the headboard, and regarded him steadily. — Christine Feehan

Colin was still working on his food, having somehow managed to charm the servants into bringing him a bowl of soup. He'd set down his spoon, though, and was presently examining his other hand, idly flexing each finger in turn, murmuring a word as each pointed out toward Phillip. "Miss. My. Wife." "Bloody hell," Phillip finally burst out. "If you're going to break my legs, would you just go ahead and do it now? — Julia Quinn

The cold bowl felt good. She'd been huddled up and crying for so long she was almost feverish. Paige took a spoonful, turned it into her mouth with the metal spoon against its roof so her tongue could capture every single drop of rich chocolate as it melted away. Good flavors and good feelings followed. She closed her eyes. Ah, comfort food. It really did its job. Paige spooned up another bite, slow and deliberate, making it last. — Lynette Endicott

Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.
No need for bowl or silver spoon,
Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the wild berry plucked in June
Beside the trickling stream.
One such to melt at the tongue's root,
Confounding taste with scent,
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
Which points my argument. — Robert Graves

A golden spoon is useless when the soup bowl is empty. — Matshona Dhliwayo

If you were to take a plastic bag and place it inside a large bowl, and then, using a wooden spoon, stir the bag around and around the bowl, you could use the expression 'a mixed bag' to describe what you had in front of you, but you would not be using the expression in the same way I am about to use it now. Although 'a mixed bag' sometimes refers to a plastic bag that has been stirred in a bowl, more often it is used to describe a situation that has both good parts and bad parts. An afternoon at a movie theater, for instance, would be a mixed bag if you favourite movie were showing but if you had to eat gravel instead of popcorn. A trip to the zoo would be a very mixed bag if the weather were beautiful, but all the man- and woman-eating lions were running around loose. — Lemony Snicket

Our tree's only source of energy is the sun: after light photons stimulate the pigments within the leaf, buzzing electrons line up into an unfathomably long chain and pass their excitement one to the other, moving biochemical energy across the cell to the exact location where it is needed. The plant pigment chlorophyll is a large molecule, and within the bowl of its spoon-shaped structure sits one single precious magnesium atom. The amount of magnesium needed for enough chlorophyll to fuel thirty-five pounds of leaves is equivalent to the amount of magnesium found in fourteen One A Day vitamins, and it must ultimately dissolve out of bedrock, which is a geologically slow process. — Hope Jahren

When you really want something, when you lust, seek, desire, await, anticipate or expect, when you sit in front of the TV after the late news twirling a plastic spoon in a bowl of lukewarm skim milk and saturated puffs of Special K, praying for nine or so hours to pass so that you can check the morning mail to see if the college accepted, the one-night stand wrote, the tax refund arrived or Publisher's Clearing House made you the winner of a dream house in Wisconsin, when you're really looking forward to something, that's when Fortuna dispatches a couple of her handmaidens to drop a load of shit on you. — Martin Fillmore Clark

World-class cereal-eating is a dance of fine compromises. The giant heaping bowl of sodden cereal, awash in milk, is the mark of the novice. Ideally one wants the bone-dry cereal nuggets and the cryogenic milk to enter the mouth with minimal contact and for the entire reaction between them to take place in the mouth. Randy has worked out a set of mental blueprints for a special cereal-eating spoon that will have a tube running down the handle and a little pump for the milk, so that you can spoon dry cereal up out of a bowl, hit a button with your thumb, and squirt milk into the bowl of the spoon even as you are introducing it into your mouth. The next best thing is to work in small increments, putting only a small amount of Cap'n Crunch in your bowl at a time and eating it all up before it becomes a pit of loathsome slime, which, in the case of Cap'n Crunch, takes about thirty seconds. — Neal Stephenson

Many comedians consider themselves to be cutting edge. But why do we have to use the knife for the analogy. Let's use the spoon. I like to consider myself the big bowl-like area of the spoon that holds all the stuff you like. — Brian Regan

If you remember the shape of your spoon at lunch, it has to be the wrong shape. The spoon and the letter are tools; one to take food from the bowl, the other to take information off the page ... When it is a good design, the reader has to feel comfortable because the letter is both banal and beautiful. — Adrian Frutiger

Ingredients 2 packages blueberry gelatin 1 small clean glass fishbowl ½ cup blueberries ½ cup grapes 1 package gummy fish 1 package gummy sharks 1 package gummy flowers 1 package gummy worms 1 thick pretzel rod 1 package red string licorice Directions 1. In a bowl, prepare gelatin according to directions on package. 2. Refrigerate for one hour. 3. While the Jell-O is gelling, add blueberries and grapes to bottom of fishbowl; these are the rocks on the bottom. 4. While it is still soft, spoon the gelatin over the fruit; this is the water. 5. Push the gummy fish, sharks, and flowers into the gelatin. 6. Place in refrigerator; serve cold. 7. To make a fishing pole, tie some red string licorice to a gummy worm, place a pretzel rod on top of the fishbowl, and attach the red string licorice to it. — Sharon M. Draper

Putting a damp spoon back in the bowl is the tea-drinking equivalent of sharing a needle. And I did not want to end up with the tea-drinking equivalent of AIDS. — Alan Partridge

Stu stops munching, looks up at me from under his shaggy hair.
"So, can you read?" He slides a section toward me.
I cock my head toward the paper. The letters are small, blurry drawings. The alphabet might as well be Chinese or Arabic. Strange that I can't read or speak, though I still have language inside my head. Words are a consolation, but not a tool.
"Guess not. You want me to read stuff out loud to you?"
I would, but not right now. If I wanted to show interest in the newspaper I could cross the table and rub against his shoulder. Instead I gaze at him over the bowl of milk.
"It's so weird," he says in a hesitant voice. "You don't look like a cat. When you stare at me, you look like Eliza."
That's the nicest thing he could have said. With a happy lightness to my step I move between the bowls, over his napkin ring and spoon, until I stand on the edge of the table and nip at his prickly chin. This is my way of saying: Hi, there. I like you. — Simone Martel