Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Curdled. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Curdled Quotes And Sayings by 94 Authors including Earl Derr Biggers,Bernard Cornwell,Alice Roosevelt Longworth,Anne Carson,Norman Lock for you to enjoy and share.
This is unexpected ... like squirt from aggressive grapefruit.
ground, then drank some and fancied it
He looks as though he's been weaned on a pickle.
Caught between the tongue and the taste.
Ravished is a nice word found in sentimental novel. Between us, Moran, the word that stuck in my mind like shit to the bottom of a shoe was fucked.
Troubles cured you salty as a country ham, smoky to the taste, thick-skinned and tender inside.
rashers of bacon.
I'm as pure as the driven slush.
She restored herself with a cocktail and an excellent lobster mayonnaise. Phryne was devoted to lobster mayonnaise, with cucumbers.
I like a pickled cucumber. A regular cucumber I'm not so interested in.
My father was ruined by hard drink - he sat on an icicle.
Speaking as someone who didn't go through the U.K. school system, with all the culinary baggage that entails, I am inordinately fond of custard in any shape or form.
Coagulate, v.: It is a dangerous thing, this thickening of affection; you want it to have weight, but not to be an immovable burden.
The thick plottens.
You look as if you have bitten into a turd.
A very scurvy fellow.
Incubated. And then raised. And then beheaded. And then plucked. And then cut up. And then put on a grill. And then put on a bun. Damn, it's gonna take a while. I don't have time. Scrambled!
Is it solid or cream filled?" Dallas screams.
The word just hangs, until Severin starts the blender and there's only the sound of crunching and grinding vitamins, the silvery core of nourishment, containing every essential thing but the nourishment itself. (pg. 82)
I ate 'umble pie with an appetite.
Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!
O, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,
Depart,
be off,
excede,
evade,
erump!
You are not a cow, and I am no apostle of cud chewing.
He stank more than any human joe had ever smelled, as if he had been dipped in some ungodly confection of camembert and rancid gasoline brewed up in a spit-filled cuspidor.
I was sand, I was snow - written on, rewritten, smoothed over.
Often, we melt into our ecstasies as though they were jams, as though we were sinking into syrupy bowls of gooseberries, of raspberries, of bilberries.
ANIENTED (A'NIENTED) adj.[anneantir, Fr.]Frustrated; brought to nothing.
One word, in this place, respecting asparagus. The young shoots of this plant, boiled, are the most unexceptionable form of greens with which I am acquainted.
Maddock stabbed his fried egg with his fork, and bright yellow yolk bled all over his plate like a sunshine hemorrhage.
He made a noise like a pig swallowing half a cabbage,
I finished grating a root and dropped the stub into a jar on the desk. Bloodroot is aptly named; the scientific name is Sanguinaria, and the juice is red, acrid, and sticky. The bowl in my lap was full of oozy, moist shavings, and my hands looked as though I had been disemboweling small animals.
Only cream and SOBs rise to the top.
The King's cheese is half wasted in parings: But no matter, 'tis made of the people's milk.
Oster blender. I poured that concoction into a griddle of sizzling butter, then sprinkled diced strawberries on the wet side. Three
Flakes. I was exhausted, shattered, in bewilderment. But behind the bewilderment the truth was
Was embarrassed; she wished only to melt into the ground. To dissolve
Cheese, where you takes liquid from a cow lady's business parts, mix it with a bit o' juices from a baby cow's fourth stomach and then let it grow all fuzzy-moldy for a few years, eh?
Someone stumbled into him, cursed and walked away. Richard was lying prone on the platform, in the rush-hour glare. The side of his face was sticky and cold. He pulled his head up off the ground. He had been lying in a pool of his own vomit. At least, he hoped it was his own.
pickle juice on a cookie.
i swallowed the syllables of your name
and i was full.
The honied tongue hath its poison.
Her body was spattered with tiny bits of the reverend's flesh and blood, like someone had combined shrimp and tomato soup and then forgot to put the lid on the blender.
it was a delusive pie, the crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath.
Today the man looked a bit . . . chewed. No, humans wouldn't say "chewed." Frazzled. Was that the human equivalent?
is the answer none of the above
crouched in a hole like a mud-streaked fugitive
everyday a different version of
pouring it away like a water through a sieve
No point in dipping death into lemon curd.
Stirred with passion, steamed with love, laced with humor and served with a smile. On the road. No sugar. No milk. Horn OK Please *Smack!!*
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast,
Still to be powder'd, all perfum'd.
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Without good company all dainties
Lose their true relish, and like painted grapes,
Are only seen, not tasted.
Me and Frosted went to get a drink.
But she ordered somethin' bugged, and I ain't know what to think.
She ordered potassium, calcium,
Carbohydrate, scotch with sodium.
She took me to her crib, threw me on the couch ...
I woke up the next morning with a spoon in my mouth.
pickled in formaldehyde and painted like a whore, / Shrimp-pink incorruptible, not lost or gone before.
People aren't tidy creations to be stacked neatly in the Tupperware or poured in premeasured quantities from a box into the Cuisinart with no spills; everybody alive is a lost and disastrous mess.
He's a bit set in his ways."
"Congealed, I should think.
A brown composition, which looked like diluted pincushions without the covers, and was called porridge.
Completely dried up, They've become beans.
Crap on a stick.
Interesting. Stonecipheco Baby Foods. Not a bad line of products, really. A bit soft and runny for my taste, of course ... "
"Well, it's infant food, really, Norman.
There is a sort of human paste that when it comes near the fire of enthusiasm is only baked into harder shape.
We split a bottle of Norman cider. Not everybody sells Norman cider by the bottle.
"Has a European feel" Susan said.
"That sounds terrific" I said. "Can I have one?"
Susan grinned at me. "How did you ever get to be so big without growing up?" she said.
"Iron self-control" I said.
Custard puddings, sauces and fillings accompany the seven ages of man in sickness and in health.
Shoveling food into his mouth. Thoughts came fluently, cogently:
Cheese. The adult form of milk.
Cuchulain stirred,
Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard
The cars of battle and his own name cried;
And fought with the invulnerable tide.
mashed into a casserole of wreckage that still smoked and burned.
Slurring is the cursive of speech...
These words are vomit.
This shaky pen is my esophagus.
This sheet of paper is my porcelain bowl.
My grandfather always says is "too dry" even if it's soup.
My bowels turned watery.
Raw, gentle, and easy, it mizzled out of the high air, a special elixir, tasting of spells and stars and air, carrying a peppery dust in it, and moving like a rare light sherry on his tongue. Rain.
Aggle flabble kabble . . . snurp?
Inside, the doctor filled an eyedropper with goat milk and began to drip it into the back of the marten's throat. It filled him with immense medical satisfaction when eventually it urinated on the knee of his trousers. This indicated healthy renal functioning.
His bowels seemed to turn to water.
He stretched, ate his last bite of fungal curds, drank the dregs of something not entirely unlike coffee, and headed out to keep peace in wartime.
Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
Simple, like uncarved wood.
My mind is a blender, coherent thoughts are chopped and killed.
Bad spellers of the world untie!
I let it boil and it's got scum on it," Carol said annoyedly. "I'm sorry."
But Therese loved it, because she knew this was exactly what Carol would always do, be thinking of something else and let the milk boil.
Choices turned to consequences, opinions turned to judgments, and admiration turned to envy. Envy curdled everything, like lemon in milk.
Into this pour the purified juice: and put it into a pan of water come almost to a boil and continue nearly in the state of boiling until the juice is found to be the consistency of a thick syrup when cold. It is then when cold, to be corked up in a bottle for use.
Simultaneously the whole party moved toward the water, super-ready from the long, forced inaction, passing from the heat to the cool with the gourmandise of a tingling curry eaten with chilled white wine.
I have supped mead with lords and ladies; so to have I slumbered in nameless lanes and gored upon mutton.
Salt. Wound. Together at last.
was like a crystal bowl filled with warm kettle corn. But when you lifted it up and checked the bottom, you could see a layer of burnt, unpopped kernels. The kind that makes you flinch from the unexpected bitter taste. The kind that may cause you to chip a tooth.
Kenny was bludgeoning his cucumber.
Burned over water.
In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry,
a yam of a woman of butter and brass,
The first thing we pulled out was a lump of white gunk.
"Wax," Carter pronounced.
"Fascinating.
It looks like frozen snot.
Bloody flaming ashes
Water trotted is as good as oates.
Wilson has some fancy name for it, but
I call lit macanaccady. Anything I can't analyze in the eating
line I call macanaccady and anything wet that puzzles me I call
shallamagouslem.
in mushy, wet oatmeal. "Are
Lumpyface Lumpyhead
She seethed like water the second before it rolls to a boil.
Blue Face
Disgusting taste
Flush it
Shush it
Cold disgrace
I think pickles are cucumbers that sold out.
Wait a minute while I think," said Miss Peavey.
There was a pause. Miss Peavey sat with knit brows.
"How would it be ... " ventured Mr. Cootes.
"Cheese it!" said Miss Peavey.
Mr. Cootes cheesed it.
For now, bread and mead call us, appetites whetted, to witness what I have been nursing, encased in iron, licked by flame, and tended with relish.
...that fucker defines cuntishness.
An old expression
'she looks like she was weaned on a pickle'
came to my mind.