“ We’re all just ingredients. What matters is the grace with which you cook the meal. ”
You could never be certain what you would find in a book that had spent time with someone else.
~ Erica Bauermeister
While the egg yolks cooled, he directed the beaters at the egg whites, setting the mixer on high speed that sent small bubbles giggling to the side of the bowl, where a few became many until they were a white froth rising up and then lying down again in patters and ridges, leaving an intricate design like the ribs of a leaf in the wake of the beaters
Stories of her children when they were small, their round little bodies barely containing their personalities, which bloomed and glittered and melted into her.
It was interesting. Isabelle thought, the children that chose you. Some come through your body; others came in cars in the middle of the night.
