He wanted to wake up to her smile every day for the rest of his life, like some stupid coffee commercial on TV.
Does your uncle need anything? A coffee? A latte?” “He needs someone to bear his illegitimate child if you’re interested
It was all very strange, Mr. Gray thought, as he wiped the coffee canister clean with a sponge. Very, very mysterious. You were born; you lived a whole life; and at the end, you wound up in a coffee canister. "Ah, well," he said out loud quietly. "That's just the way things are. Life's a funny business." Death, he supposed, was the punch line.
I'll cab it home." "Naw. I'll hang until you're through. Then I'll drag you back to your apartment. Watch you throw up for an hour. Push you into bed. Before I leave I'll get the coffee machine set up. Aspirin will be right next to the sugar bowl." "I don't have a sugar bowl." "So it'll be next to the bag." Butch smiled. "You'd have made a great wife, Jose." "That's what mine tells me.
If the waitress comes, order me a coffee and something that involves bacon.
Tall, with skin the color of rich coffee, and dressed all in black, Jim looked like he was carved from a block of solid muscle. Logic said that at some point he must've been a baby and then a child, but looking at him one was almost convinced that some deity touched the ground with its scepter and proclaimed, "There shall be a badass," and Jim sprung into existence, fully formed, complete with clothes, and ready for action.
It's different," you said. "You've made, Min, everything different for me. Everything's like coffee you made me try, better than I ever - or the places I didn't even know were right on the street, you know? I'm like this thing I saw when I was little, where a kid hears a noise under his bed and there's a ladder there that's never been there before, and he climbs down and, it's for kids I know, but this song starts playing..." Your eyes were traveling in the treey light.
Once Mo had closed the gates, he returned to his little stone hut, and his half-eaten sandwich of butter and canned sardines, and his mug of thick hot chocolate, which every night he poured carefully into a thermos labeled COFFEE.
The man's got more money than God, and he sends you a bag of coffee?
His eyes were cold and brown - like coffee stains.
Coffee, unless it is very good and made by somebody else, is pretty intolerable at any time.
How's it going down there?" "It's weird. They're too polite, they talk funny, and stuff has too much shine on it. But the coffee's worse than Central's, so that's something.
Meghan pushed her chocolate cheesecake across the table to me. I hadn’t gotten paid yet for November, so I had only ordered coffee. “Here,” she said. “Don’t you want it?” “Sure I want it. I ordered it. But I’m giving it to you.” “Why?” Meghan stood up and got me a fork. “Remember what Nora said about love? In your movie?” “Love is when you have a really amazing piece of cake, and it’s the very last piece, but you let him have it,” I said. “So it’s really amazing cake,” said Meghan. “And I want you to have it.
After a geological epoch passed in which single-celled organisms evolved into talk show hosts, Mr. Coffee was still holding out on me.
A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony.
I was having coffee with my bodyguard. I didn't expect to be hunting bad guys until later. Leather before sundown is tacky.
Want coffee?" I asked, as I headed that way. "It's three thirty in the morning." "Okay. Want coffee?
I didn't want to come in the movie every so often, every 20 minutes saying, 'Dinner is served, would you like coffee?'
Though we feel extremely connected through all this technology [social networks], there's also this disconnect that happens. Because you're not actually talking to anyone. You're not actually meeting them for coffee. To me, social media is about "you". It's like, "Well, twenty people like this thing I said", so that's about me.
If people wake up and go, "Oh, where's the coffee," or "Oh, another day," that does not set a good tone for the day.
I like the smell of toast. Coffee is okay, but I don't drink much coffee. But toast is a nice smell. You smell some toast coming from your kitchen in the morning, you know that you're involved in a domestic situation and the operation that's going on is pleasant.
I can't cook, at all. I would not know how to make coffee. I took cooking classes, so I know how to make chocolate soufflé, but ask me if I want to make soufflé. I let somebody else make the chocolate soufflé, and I eat it. I found that, when I took cooking classes and tried to cook, I didn't want to eat it. The joy was gone. I was always filthy with the stuff, and then had to clean it up. I don't like that.
I believe that water is the only drink for a wise man: wine is not so noble a liquor; and think of dashing the hopes of a morningwith a cup of warm coffee, or of an evening with a dish of tea! Ah, how low I fall when I am tempted by them! Even music may be intoxicating. Such apparently slight causes destroyed Greece and Rome, and will destroy England and America.
In lecturing on cookery, as on housebuilding, I divide the subject into, not four, but five grand elements: first, Bread; second,Butter; third, Meat; fourth, Vegetables; and fifth, Tea--by which I mean, generically, all sorts of warm, comfortable drinks served out in teacups, whether they be called tea, coffee, chocolate, broma, or what not. I affirm that, if these five departments are all perfect, the great ends of domestic cookery are answered, so far as the comfort and well-being of life are concerned.
Talk is a pure art. Its only limits are the patience of listeners who, when they get tired, can always pay for their coffee or change it with a friendly waiter and walk out.
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