Sweet Butter Quotes & Sayings

Near my feet is a glowing archway. The light is white and shimmery, like iridescent glitter, and it's so tall the top nearly brushes the ceiling. Inside, instead of seeing the cement wall of the basement, I'm looking at evenly spaced wooden pillars and a reed-mat floor. Standing on that mat is a woman with curves that would make a Playboy model jealous. She's wearing a long, butter yellow dress, and her white hair hangs down to her waist. She looks like an angel when she smiles at me, holding out her hands.
"Hudson, come with me." Her voice reminds me of the breeze rustling through the trees near the lake. Soft and subtle and calming. "Let me help you."
Did I die? Maybe the scratch on my side got infected. Maybe I've been slowly bleeding to death from internal injuries for the past week. Who knows? If this is death, if she's what's waiting for me on the other side, then fuck it. I'm letting go. — Erica Cameron

Sitting at the kitchen table, Assail could only stare at his cousins.
The pair of contract killers, drug dealers, and enforcers had not only washed up before the meal, they were now easing back in their seats and looking like they wanted to loosen their pants.
As Marisol's grandmother got to her feet again, Assail shook his head.
"Madam, you must enjoy this food on which you worked so diligently."
"I am enjoying." She headed back for the counter and cut more bread. "These boys, they need to eat more. Too thin, too thin."
At this rate, she was going to turn his backups into - what was the expression, sofa potatoes?
And what do you know, even though those two males were stuffed, they took another slice of her homemade bread, and dutifully layered on the sweet butter.
Unbelievable. — J.R. Ward

There was currant toast squishy with butter, caramel-marshmallow squares, strawberry boats oozing custard, chocolate exclairs that exploded with cream when the cats bit into them with their little white teeth and-- a special treat for Pleasant-- a pie made from thick slices of Bramley apple, with just the right amount of tangy in the tangy-sweet. — Anne Michaels

Plain fresh bread, its crust shatteringly crisp. Sweet cold butter. There is magic in the way they come together in your mouth to make a single perfect bite. — Ruth Reichl

The butter from Dorothy's' crumpet
Dripped into the bell of her trumpet.
Sweet young Edgar, eating Jell-O,
Dropped a spoonful onto is cello. — Angelica Banks

Jerry took a large slice of wheaten bread, spread with golden butter, and bit into it with her small white teeth. It was a natural gesture - she was very hungry indeed - but to Sam, there was something symbolic about it. Jerry was like bread, he thought. She was like good wholesome wheaten bread, spread thick with honest farm butter; and the thought crossed his mind, that a man might eat bread forever and ever, and not tire of it, and it would never clog his palate like sweet cakes or pastries or chocolate eclairs. — D.E. Stevenson

A boy from Brooklyn used to cruise on summer nights.
As soon as he'd hit sixty he'd hold his hand out the window,
cupping it around the wind. He'd been assured
this is exactly how a woman's breast feels when you put
your hand around it and apply a little pressure. Now he knew,
and he loved it. Night after night, again and again, until
the weather grew cold and he had to roll the window up.
For many years afterwards he was perpetually attempting
to soar. One winter's night, holding his wife's breast
in his hand, he closed his eyes and wanted to weep.
He loved her, but it was the wind he imagined now.
As he grew older, he loved the word etcetera and refused
to abbreviate it. He loved sweet white butter. He often
pretended to be playing the organ. On one of his last mornings,
he noticed the shape of his face molded in the pillow.
He shook it out, but the next morning it reappeared. — Mary Ruefle

She could smell the boy spice beneath the thrift-store aroma of his jacket, and the rubbing and the smell began to work to soften her
like butter before you add sugar, in the first steps of making something sweet. It was her first experience of how bodies could meld together, how breath could slip naturally into rhythm. It was hypnotic. Heady. And she wanted more. — Laini Taylor

And how sweet that would have been: the two of them back by the milk shed, squatting by the churn, smashing cold, lumpy butter into their faces with not a care in the world. — Toni Morrison

See with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of lamps-often but old bottles and vials, though ... He burns, too, the purest of oil ... It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He goes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and genuineness, even as the traveler on the prairie hunts up his own supper of game. — Herman Melville

Good will starts out fat and sweet
as tub butter and turns slowly rancid.
It must be made again daily
if we want it fresh. — Marge Piercy

The Kitchen





Half a papaya and a palmful of sesame oil;
lately, your husband's mind has been elsewhere.

Honeyed dates, goat's milk;
you want to quiet the bloating of salt.

Coconut and ghee butter;
he kisses the back of your neck at the stove.

Cayenne and roasted pine nuts;
you offer him the hollow of your throat.

Saffron and rosemary;
you don't ask him her name.

Vine leaves and olives;
you let him lift you by the waist.

Cinnamon and tamarind;
lay you down on the kitchen counter.

Almonds soaked in rose water;
your husband is hungry.

Sweet mangoes and sugared lemon;
he had forgotten the way you taste.

Sour dough and cumin;
but she cannot make him eat, like you. — Warsan Shire

Francie, Neeley, and mama had a very fine meal. Each had a thick slice of the "tongue," two pieces of sweet-smelling rye bread spread with unsalted butter, a sugar bun apiece and a mug of strong hot coffee with a teaspoon of sweetened condensed milk on the side. — Betty Smith

Scones (flavoured with outrage, optional - see "My Story") Mix together: 2 cups flour 4 t. baking powder ¾ t. salt 2-4 T. sugar (depending on whether scones are to be sweet or savoury) Cut into the flour mixture: 1/3 cup butter When the mixture looks like coarse breadcrumbs, add any flavourings (handful of grated cheese with herbs, and green onions; lemon rind; dried cranberries, currents, or blueberries, etc). Beat together: ¾ cup milk or cream 1 egg Stir into the dry mixture. Turn out onto a floured surface and knead three or four times, then roll out to ¾ inch thick and cut into circles with cutter, or pat into one large circle and cut that into wedges. Bake at 400 degrees 15 minutes, or until golden. Can brush the top with egg and sprinkle with coarse sugar before baking, if desired. Some — Laurie R. King

Tender and sweet, Manila clams partner well with a wide variety of foods - white wine, sake, beer, butter, leeks, fresh herbs, roasted peppers, olives, and wild mushrooms, to name a few. — Tom Douglas

I didn't have a sweet tooth, but I liked butter, and I liked sauces, and I liked wine ... and curry ... and cheeses. — Maeve Binchy

Wash your dress in running water. dry it on the southern side of a rock. let them have four guesses and make them all wrong. take a fistful of snow in the summer heat. cook haluski in hot sweet butter. drink cold milk to clean your insides. be careful when you wake: breathing lets them know how asleep you are. don't hang your coat from a hook in the door. ignore curfew. remember weather by the voice of the wheel. do not become the fool they need you to become. change your name. lose your shoes. practice doubt. dress in oiled cloth around sickness. adore darkness. turn sideways in the wind. the changing of stories is a cheerful affair. give the impression of not having known. — Colum McCann

Consider little children. There are not many of them not cute and lovable and precious, sweet as whipped honey and butter. So where do all the wicked people come from? — Glen Cook

July is hollyhocks and hammocks, fireworks and vacations, hot and steamy weather, cool and refreshing swims, beach picnics, and vegetables all out of the garden - first sweet corn on the cob dripping with butter, first tomatoes dead ripe and sunwarm, string beans, squash, crisp cucumbers. July can also be hard and shiny, brassy and sharp. Some days are like copper pennies in the sunlight. — Jean Hersey

We dug the asparagus, and tonight Aunt Charlotte cooked it for me herself with butter and melted cheese. I ate a whole plateful and drank half the brown jug of sweet milk. Then I had two slices of the thick coarse-grain bread that Aunt and the nuns make fresh every day. — Kathryn Lasky

I'm religious about salted butter. I don't understand how it happened that everyone thought we should all have sweet butter. I blame the French. — Nora Ephron

Oh, God above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with butter and salt, and after the egg is there anything in the world lovelier than fresh warm bread and a mug of sweet golden tea? — Frank McCourt

But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh! sweet friends, hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuits and salted pork cut up into little flakes! the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt ... we dispatched it with great expedition. — Herman Melville

What are you thinking? Sandwiches?" Finn asked in a hopeful voice. "No. I'm in the mood for something sweet." I grabbed the butter out of the fridge, then rummaged through the cabinets. Flour, oats, dried apricots, golden raisins, brown sugar, vanilla. I pulled them out, along with some mixing cups, a baking pan, a spatula, and a bowl. Finn settled himself at the kitchen table and drank his coffee while I worked. By the time Jo-Jo walked back into the kitchen, I was sliding the batter into the oven. "Whatcha making?" the dwarf asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Apricot bars, — Jennifer Estep

Len Colter sat in the shade under the wall of the horse barn, eating pone and sweet butter and contemplating a sin. — Leigh Brackett

A smile bloomed again in his eyes. "I love that you let me bring out that softness in you. You've always been such a tough little trooper, but under that snappy, tough act you put on, you're butter-soft. Sweet as honey. And I can get there! Make that softness come up. I'm so ... honored by it — Ramona Wray

Lucretia Jane Price. A sweet name for a sweet lady that smelled of roses, spoke with a sweet drawl, and was surely made of all the sweet country things a man who hadn't eaten a good meal in a long time could imagine
molasses, sweet peas, sweet corn, freshly churned butter. — Linda Leigh Hargrove

I just knew Jax. The sweet guy who wanted to go into a grocery store and buy himself a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and took the time to be kind to little girls. — Abbi Glines

(She) got herself a real boyfriend and she was just crazy about him. Not jack rabbit naked and coyote howling crazy, but sugar 'n' butter, soft 'n' sweet crazy. — Jackson Burnett

I am the triple owner of the world, the finest Turkey, the Lorelei, Germania and Helvetia of exclusively sweet butter and Naples, and I must supply the whole world with macaroni. — Carl Jung

The soft aroma of old worn cotton from a linen chest, the lingering smell of tobacco on an angora sweater; Jergen's hand lotion, sauteed green peppers and onions; the sweet, nutty smell of peanut butter and bananas, the oaken smell of good bourbon. A combination of lily of the valley, cedar, vanilla, and somewhere, the lingering of old rose. These smells are older than any thought. Mama, Teensy, Neecie, and Caro, each one of them had an individual scent, to be sure. But this is the Gumbo of their scents. This is the Gumbo Ya-Ya. This is the internal vial of perfume I carry with me everywhere I go. — Rebecca Wells

Her hair was well brushed that day and sheened darkly in contrast with the lusterless pallor of her neck and arms. She wore the striped tee shirt which in his lone fantasies he especially liked to peel off her twisting torso. The oilcloth was divided into blue and white squares. A smear of honey stained what remained of the butter in its cool crock.
'All right. And the third Real Thing?'
She considered him. A fiery droplet in the wick of her mouth considered him. A three-colored velvet violet, of which she had done an aquarelle on the eve, considered him from its fluted crystal. She said nothing. She licked her spread fingers, still looking at him.
Van, getting no answer, left the balcony. Softly her tower crumbled in the sweet silent sun. — Vladimir Nabokov

Leave me to die a lonely death.
An artist's death.
A writer's playground.
A painter's background.
A philosopher's bread and butter.
An endeavor that we
all face. I just hope that
I'm not the only one
there. — A.P. Sweet

It has taken almost half my life away from Ireland for me to truly feel what home really is, and it is not what I was expecting. In the end it was not a place, or a past, or any sort of single, dazzling epiphany. It was all the little things. Cold butter spread thick on sweet wheaten bread or hot, subsiding potatoes; the scent of wet, black soil; a bushy spine of grass on a one-track road; wide iron gates leading to high beech corridors; the chalky smell of a cow's wet muzzle, and, most of all, in Seamus Heaney's words, the sound of rivers in the trees. — Trish Deseine

I have the biggest sweet tooth! You name it, I will eat it. My all-time favorite is my mother's butter cake. Every time I go home, my mom will already have the cake made because I love it so much. This makes my siblings mad because they think she favors me. I don't care because she probably does! — Michael Strahan

My maternal grandmother made fantastic ox tongue with velvety roasted potatoes. She cooked sweet red cabbage and lovely cauliflower with butter and bread crumbs. — Yotam Ottolenghi

We surf-fished in the breakers catching spottail bass and flounder for dinner. I discovered that summer that I loved to cook and feed my friends, and I enjoyed the sound of their praise as they purred with pleasure at the meals I fixed over glowing iron and fire. I had the run of my grandparents' garden and I would put ears of sweet corn in aluminum foil after washing them in seawater and slathering them with butter and salt and pepper. Beneath the stars we would eat the beefsteak tomatoes okra and the field peas flavored with salt pork and jalapeno peppers. I would walk through the disciplined rows that brimmed with purple eggplants and watermelons and cucumbers, gathering vegetables. My grandfather, Silas, told us that summer that low country earth was so fertile you could drop a dime into it and grow a money tree. — Pat Conroy

Silver sparkles from inside caught in the air and rolled in the wind past her. She took a deep breath, and it made her stand up straighter. Sugar and vanilla and butter.
That relentless scent had been following her around all her life. Sometimes she could see it, like this, but most of the time she felt it. When she was a kid, she could be sitting in class at school, or walking her dog Chester, or in the middle of a dreary violin lesson with her older brother, and the smell would suddenly appear out of nowhere and make her inexplicably restless. Even now, sometimes she would wake up at night and swear someone was baking a cake in the house. — Sarah Addison Allen

Sweet potatoes are ideal for lazy days: just bake, then mash and mix with yogurt, butter or olive oil. — Yotam Ottolenghi