I'm a breakfast type of guy. Don't get me wrong. I can cook, I'm kinda nice on the burner, but I enjoy making breakfast. I do it all. . . Scrambled eggs. . . French toast. . . Pancakes. . . Breakfast is my thing.
Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
Is it a spiral of water in the tragic gleam of a revolver, an egg, a glistening arc or the floodgate of reason, a keen ear attuned to a mineral hiss, or a turbine of algebraic formulas? (On Man Ray's first photograms, 1921. )
The world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome, dubious eggs, called possibilities.
I have to have breakfast and breakfast has to be eggs, whether in omelet form, hard-boiled, or over-easy.
The lancet fluke (Dicrocoelium) infects the brain of ants by taking control and driving them to climb to the top of a blade of grass where they can be eaten by a cow. The ingested fluke then lays eggs in the cow gut. Eventually, the eggs exit the cow, and hungry snails eat the dung (and fluke eggs). The fluke enters the snail's digestive gland and gets excreted in sticky slime full of a seething mass of flukes to be drunk by ants as a source of moisture.
If you've broken the eggs, you should make the omelette.
It might seem that an egg which has succeeded in being fresh has done all that can reasonably be expected of it.
My keep-match meals: I'm good to go together with kale salad. Actually, Justin [Theroux] makes an ideal one with a poached egg and quinoa. It's actually scrumptious.
Curse the blasted, jelly-boned swines, the slimy, the belly-wriggling invertebrates, the miserable soddingrotters, the flaming sods, the sniveling, dribbling, dithering, palsied, pulse-less lot that make up England today. They've got white of egg in their veins, and their spunk is that watery it's a marvel they can breed.
Poirot said placidly, “One does not, you know, employ merely the muscles. I do not need to bend and measure the footprints and pick up the cigarette ends and examine the bent blades of grass. It is enough for me to sit back in my chair and think. It is this – ” he tapped his egg-shaped head – “this, that functions!
True effectiveness is a function of two things: what is produced (the golden eggs) and the producing asset (the goose).
Don't count your eggs until the chicken's laid them.
But the paparazzi are quite malicious and vocal and really rude,. . . And they camped outside of my house, so I started throwing eggs at them, lobbing them at rocks next to them.
The wonder is that the characteristic efficacy to touch and inspire deep creative centers dwells in the smallest nursery fairy tale-as the flavor of the ocean is contained in a droplet or the whole mystery of life within the egg of a flea. For the symbols of mythology are not manufactured; they cannot be ordered, invented, or permanently suppressed. They are spontaneous productions of the psyche, and each bears within it, undamaged, the germ power of its source.
I'm frightened of eggs, worse than frightened, they revolt me.
I hope his wife feeds him [Clarence Thomas, Justice, U. S. Supreme Court] lots of eggs and butter and he dies early like many black men do, of heart disease. . . . He is an absolutely reprehensible person.
I put the guitar back in the case. I can't even look at it anymore. Instead, I want to make brownies. I want an end result there's a recipe for. I want to combine eggs and water and oil and chocolate and flour and sugar and vanilla and get something fulfilling.
Advertising is a conscienceless industry, populated by cowards and idiots, that warps and drains everyone. It eggs on the worst in all of us. If I could eliminate either advertising or nuclear weapons, I would choose advertising.
I worked as a waiter when I was 15 and got a chance to appreciate good, simple food. There's nothing better than a boiled egg with toast.