Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
Trust no friend with that you need fear him if he were your enemy.
Prayer should be the key of the day and the lock of the night.
He that hath not the craft, let him shut up shop.
A discontented man knowes not where to sit easie.
He that commits a fault, thinkes every one speakes of it. [He that commits a fault thinks everyone speaks of it. ]
Thou who hast given so much to me, give me one more thing. . . a grateful heart!
One of the grandest figures that ever frequented Eastern Yorkshire was William Smith, the distinguished Father of English Geology. My boyish reminiscence of the old engineer, as he sketched a triangle on the flags of our yard, and taught me how to measure it, is very vivid. The drab knee-breeches and grey worsted stockings, the deep waistcoat, with its pockets well furnished with snuff-of which ample quantities continually disappeared within the finely chiselled nostril-and the dark coat with its rounded outline and somewhat quakerish cut, are all clearly present to my memory.
I can never read this book, just like I can never see a movie that I wrote a screenplay for. I can read it and see it physically, but I can't accurately judge it. I'm too close to it. If I read it ten times I'll have ten different reactions.
Barry Crump wrote a lot of books and they were really special. They were kind of the quintessential, mild for the most part, kind of southern man, kind of the true heart of what it meant to be a Kiwi kind of farmer; very kind of outdoor man living off the land. That kind of thing, you don't see so much anymore these days with everyone being metrosexual and lattes and laptops.
I do not stick to rules when cooking. I rely on my imagination.