A Quote by James Beard

A gourmet who thinks of calories is like a tart who looks at her watch. — © James Beard
A gourmet who thinks of calories is like a tart who looks at her watch.
20 minutes later: a girl on Himmel Street. She looks up. She speaks in whisper. 'The sky is soft today, Max. The clouds are so soft and sad, and...' She looks away and crosses her arms. She thinks of her papa going to war and grabs her jacket at each side of her body. 'And it's cold, Max. It's so cold.
My daughter thinks that only her mum is on the television. Every time she sees the screen anywhere she's like mummy! Because we don't let her watch the TV.
Everybody literally thinks I've had plastic surgery. My mom's family call her, and they're like, 'Did Hailey do her lips? Did she do her nose?' Do people want me to go to a doctor and have them examine my face so they can tell people I haven't? My face has just matured. I grew into my looks.
Everything you do, burns calories. Getting up in the morning, 100 calories; kicking the hooker out of your bed, another 100; diapering your monkey, 35 calories; laughing at a midget, fun and 10 calories; catching your girlfriend with another guy, 2000-3000 calories, depending on backswings.
I used to watch my mom put her makeup on for the stage, and it was one of the most special moments. I would sit quietly on the dressing room floor and watch her put her face on. I think she looks most beautiful in the morning when she wakes up with no makeup on... it's my favorite look on women.
I don't use the word gourmet. The word doesn't mean anything anymore. 'Gourmet' makes it sound like someone is putting sherry wine in the corn-flake casserole.
Whether you watch 'Law and Order' all the time or not, everyone knows what it looks like. Everyone knows what the courtroom looks like, what the police precinct looks like.
Some things are worth the fat and calories, although I have to watch it like a hawk.
When you have a beanpole body, everything looks cute. Like Alexa Chung. I like her style, but she's really tall and skinny, so everything looks good on her.
The day that I saw Whoopi Goldberg on television, I cried so hard because I kept looking at my daddy going, 'Oh my God. There's somebody on TV that looks like me! She looks like me! Yay! I can be on TV! I can be on TV! I can do it! Look at her - look at her! She looks just like me.'
She laughs and looks out the window and I think for a minute that she's going to start to cry. I'm standing by the door and I look over at the Elvis Costello poster, at his eyes, watching her, watching us, and I try to get her away from it, so I tell her to come over here, sit down, and she thinks I want to hug her or something and she comes over to me and puts her arms around my back and says something like 'I think we've all lost some sort of feeling.
I think that's why Meryl Streep is working so much, because she looks like a woman we can all relate to. I look at her and I think, 'I'm chasing my kids, I've moved my parents in with me, I'm coping with food spills - that looks like me in real life'. Meryl looks like an unmade bed, and that's what I look like. To me, that looks true.
I can't believe it! A real gourmet kitchen, and I get to watch!
Twelve years ago my mother gets her cataracts removed. So twelve years ago the doctor gives her these enormous sunglasses to wear to protect her eyes from the sun for 4-6 weeks after the operation...twelve years ago. She still wears them. She thinks they're attractive. She looks like Bea Arthur as a welder.
He thinks about her, at this moment, in her house, a few thin walls away, packing her life into boxes and bags and he wonders what memories she is rediscovering, what thoughts are catching in her mouth like the dust blown from unused textbooks. He wonders if she has buried any traces of herself under her floorboards. He wonders what those traces would be if she had. And he wonders again why he thinks about her so much when he knows so little to think about.
I watch her as she leaves. Everything about her is fluid as a river. Her messy hair, her xylophone voice, the strokes of her paintbrush. Even her camouflage army jacket hangs loose, flowing like ribbons.
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