Okra is the closest thing to nylon I've ever eaten. It's like they bred cotton with a green bean. Okra, tastes like snot. The more you cook it, the more it turns into string.
I love fried okra. The fact that it's okra makes me feel like it's good for you - I forget the fact that it's fried.
Does Patch have a restraining order against him?' he read. 'Is Patch a felon?' 'Give-me-that!' I hissed furiously. Patch gave a soft laugh, and I knew he'd seen the next question. 'Does Patch have a girlfriend?
After 60, its just patch, patch, patch
After 60, it's just patch, patch, patch.
After age 70, it's patch, patch, patch.
Well yoy did it,"I congratulated Patch. "I´m as trained as I´ll ever be-a lean, mean sword-fighting machine. I should have made you my personal trainer from day one." A rogue smile surfaced, slow and wicked. " No match for Patch." Patch&Nora (p.379)
Your name?” I repeated, hoping it was my imagination that my voice faltered. “Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me
Nora: What are you planning? Patch: I wouldn't call this planning. I'd call this throwing a Hail Mary with seconds left on the clock.
Cooking isn’t taught,” Patch said. “It’s inherent. Either you’ve got it or you don’t. Like chemistry. You think you’re ready for chemistry?” I pressed the knife down through the tomato; it split in two, each half rocking gently on the cutting board. “You tell me. Am I ready for chemistry?” Patch made a deep sound I couldn’t decipher and grinned.
Patch: “Let’s get out of here.” – Nora: “Where are we going?” – Patch: “You’ll see.
I’m going to grab a cheeseburger,” I told Patch. “Want anything?” “Nothing on the menu.” I smiled. “Why, Patch, are you flirting with me?
You can call me Patch. No really. Call me.
Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me.
I grew up loving okra.
What does this patch-sewing mean you ask? Eating and drinking. The heavy cloak of the body is always getting torn. You patch it with food and other ego-satisfactions.