Adult friend finded
Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint.
Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. And then she'd get a glimpse of him with tears in his eyes and the rage would turn soft and slide into something like forgiveness.
We look for someone who can pull us out of the darkness of adulthood and ignite the simple, childish joys of life.” ― “Since my earliest memory, I imagined I would be a chef one day.
When other kids were watching Saturday morning cartoons or music videos on You Tube, I was watching Iron Chef, The Great British Baking Show, and old Anthony Bourdain shows and taking notes. I have long lists of ideas for recipes that I can modify or make my own.
So many people look everywhere but to themselves for the change that needs to happen in their lives, pointing at their missed opportunities and blaming their parents. May I gently suggest that perhaps you've climbed in there yourself, closed the door, and locked it behind you?
You don't have to be one of them.” ― “You may have terrible memories from your childhood . If so, you may be effectively locking out those who could help you.” ― “Sirine learned about food from her parents.
It was the same as she'd left it: a pile of cushions by her bed for Little Brother to sleep on, a stack of poetry and famous literature on her desk that she was supposed to study to become a "model bride," and the lavender shawl and silk robes she'd worn the day before she left home.
Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver.Sirine's earliest memory was of sitting on a phone book on a kitchen chair, the sour-tart smell of pickled grape leaves in the air.Her mother spread the leaves flat on the table like little floating hands, placed the spoonful of rice and meat at the center of each one, and Sirine with her tiny fingers rolled the leaves up tighter and neater than anyone else could- tender, garlicky, meaty packages that burst in the mouth.” ― “Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son.Mulan's gaze lingered on the comb, on its green teeth and the pearl-colored flower nestled on its shoulder.She wanted to hold it, to put it in her hair and show her family- to show everyone- she was worthy. She needed to show them that she had bloomed to be worthy of her family name.He pulled two kilos of java beans from the freezer.Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt.Da li nam se ta duboka čežnja djetinje nerazumnosti posigurno javlja samo kao tužni znak izvezen na mahramama i na safijanskim koricama nepotrebnih knjiga?” ― “In the life of everyone there is a limited number of experiences which are not written upon the memory, but stamped there with a die; and in the long years after, they can be called up in detail, and every emotion that was stirred by them can be lived through anew; these are the tragedies of life.” ― “Do you remember the unbidden summer rain Washing the dew from mulberries away?tags: abuse, abusive, bad-parenting, brainwashing, broken-home, childhood, childhood-memories, didn-t-mean-it, divorce, emotional-abuse, false-beliefs, family, father, harm, heartbreak, heartbroken, hurt, indoctrination, limitations, limits, love-lost, loyalty, mental-abuse, mother, parenthood, parents, parents-and-children, psychological-abuse, relationships, scars “Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags.And while those bags might hold a few hazy recollections—a diner with a jukebox at the table, being pushed on a swing set, the way it felt to be picked up and spun around—it didn’t seem enough to last a whole lifetime.” ― “Gdje su zlatne ptice ljudskih snova, preko kojih se to bezbrojnih mora i vrletnih planina do njih dolazi?