Cottagecore Quotes

“They were part of a forest, an ecosystem that is perfect because of its wide variety of species, dominant because nothing is not allowed to be there. In the forest, everything that is inclined to thrive really does, and has a job, and some jobs are to grow things up and some jobs are to take things apart and everything is accepted because there is no notion—among bacteria and moss and busy mice—there is no notion of who deserves to do something or be in a place. There are only lives to be lived, and they are everywhere.”
― Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

“Just because something comes easily to you, does not mean it has no value. You find it effortless because you love it, and that is why it is your gift.”
― Katie O'Neill, The Tea Dragon Society

“When nighttime came, the rocking chairs creaked. Waves lulled the girl and her cottage to sleep.”
― Kelly Jordan

“How about you tell me which plants are which, and we'll... organize them. So that they all have the chance to thrive. We can designate areas for different kinds of plants and transplant the rest outside the fence. Like at the library." She walked toward the east side of the garden. "Here's the Nonfiction section. Vegetables only here."
"New Studies and Treaties," Caz said, designating an area at the front of the Nonfiction section. "Your seeds can go here. And in the back, Histories--- that's the old growth."
"In the front of the cottage, Fiction. That'll be all the flowers."
"What about the berries?"
"Journals of Scientific Papers," she decided, because of the way the brambles both supported and strangled one another. "Along the far fence.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“Hidden in the broom cupboard of Rose Cottage are two grand gates that lead to the loveliest little house you've ever seen. Nutmouse Hall. Shh, don't tell anyone... No one knows it's there...not even Arthur and Lucy who live in Rose Cottage.

This is the home of Tumtum and Nutmeg...”
― Emily Bearn

“the old house,
in the lee of the hills,
surrounded by relics
of the old powder mill.

the ancient stones silent,
the water wheels still,
but yet there is life
in the ruins of the mill.

the birds and the sheep
find shelter to sleep
the fisherman fish
in the river so deep.

the flowers of the forest
carpet the glades.
and the frogs they are leaping
down in the lades.

laughter bygone
forever is still
yet the echoes still linger
here in the mill.

voices come whispering
from the century that was
and dash is just resting
under the moss.

on nights of bright moon
flooding over the hill
I sense the life breathing
here, in the mill.

and here in the house
time beats gently past
as it has done before
and will to the last.”
― Christine Marion Fraser, Green Are My Mountains

“But despite heavy clouds, a feeling of contentment hangs in the air, coming from the kitchen's ability to be two things at once: to be an enclosed space that effectively opens up the world through taste and flavor and imagination. Nature comes in here. Pomegranate seeds on rice dishes, a strip of orange peel for a negroni, or a ribbon of lemon skin for a martini. A lime wedge for gin. A bowl of ripening pears. A jar of dates. Peaches roasted in rose water and stuffed with marzipan. Blackberries scattered on pancakes. Apricots cinched in chutney. Memories of melons, and the vine pergolas and fruit trees of summer, of prized Uzbek cherries carried in boxes across borders. The kitchen is an orchard.”
― Caroline Eden, Cold Kitchen: A Year of Culinary Travels

“There, in the warmth of the sun, the protection of the woods, and with the lake as my constant companion, I was free to be my true self. In this place, grades and appearances were not measured, and love was not conditional. I
was unshackled from the expectations of others, my spirit as light as the breeze off the lake. I became the golden girl reborn.”
― Kristyn Jewell, Poppy and Pa

“When we reached The Point, we would first feel the slimy, rough rock below our bellies, as if being lifted on the back of a whale. We would pull ourselves along the rock’s massive underwater surface, careful to not graze our hands or knees, then climb up above the water, standing tall beside the tower of rocks. We spent the rest of our time sliding down its slippery backside, over and over again—our own natural playground.”
― Kristyn Jewell, Poppy and Pa

“Late afternoons were for resting in the hammock that hung between the Three Sisters, my favourite trio of birch trees, a book resting on my chest. Other days, I would follow my imagination around our property, my bare feet sinking into pillows of soft moss and rough lichens as I climbed up rock faces or followed a path of fallen pine needles. I would name each plant and tree around me as I filled my pockets with acorns, my soles hardened by the end of the summer.”
― Kristyn Jewell, Poppy and Pa

“She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue--- sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue--- all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother's abandoned clothes, and she could use her father's for... She wasn't sure what, but they were nice to have. She'd find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents' bed. Each quilt had its own pattern--- one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She'd had no idea. She'd been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she'd tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They'll be even more beautiful once they're clean.
The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“A breeze whisked across the garden, and the leaves shimmered in the sunlight as they fluttered. She inhaled the heavy scent of green, growing things--- she could smell a hint of honey within the breeze, and she didn't know which flowers it came from. Prickly bushes with pale flowers filled one corner, and shoots with balls of purple flowers towered over another. She breathed in again and thought the nobles in Alyssium would have paid fistfuls of money to smell as light and lovely as the air on Caltrey. Just breathing it in made her feel like she was waking up after a night of perfect, deep sleep. She'd never felt quite so aware of the taste and feel of the air, or of the sounds of the birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. It made her feel like she could tackle any challenge--- if only she knew exactly how.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“It's going to be fun," Terlu said.
He snorted, but then he smiled and held out the half-finished icing rose. "Taste?"
"You're supposed to be making them for the feast. I can't---"
He popped it in her mouth.
It melted and flavor burst from it. She'd expected pure sugar, but what she tasted was strawberries and vanilla--- it was a bite of spring. "Oh! How did you do that?"
"Each color rose is going to have a different flavor."
"You're brilliant."
He blushed. "I'm glad you like it. I'm going to put them all over the sugar glass, to symbolize the cracks that the plants healed."
"Sounds beautiful.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Enchanted Greenhouse

“She'd never imagined any of this--- this island, the greenhouses, the purpose she'd found in translating the late sorcerer's spells, the new community they were building, the plants and the dragons, the winged cat, and Yarrow. All of it. She hadn't even known this life was out there to dream about. Now, though, it was the life she wanted.
"I'm home," Terlu told him.
Drawing her closer, he kissed her, and she kissed him back. Above them, the snow fell gently on the greenhouse, while inside and all around them, the flowers bloomed.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Enchanted Greenhouse

“It's just past eight a.m. in Seattle, but in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, Aurora's six kids are already hours into their daily chores around the historic manor house and hobby farm Aurora and her husband Will run together. Today she's in the henhouse, and she's propped me up in an empty nesting box while she gathers fresh eggs with two of my nieces. All around them I can hear the soft clucking of the brood as she and the girls gather eggs and gently tuck them into a basket she wove by hand. She's dressed in a flowing muslin peasant dress that looks vaguely like a Jane Austen-era nightgown. On her it looks strangely amazing, though. Everything does. She even somehow manages to rock the elaborate ruffle around the neck. Her flaxen hair is in two braids wrapped around her head like a crown, Heidi-style. The girls are wearing matching ruffled pinafores and pigtails. They look darling.”
― Rachel Linden, The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake

“Jane Grigson joined the Observer magazine in the summer of 1968. Her first column was about strawberries. She wrote a recipe for strawberry barquettes-- small pastry boats filled with fruit and lacquered with redcurrant jam so that they looked like jewels. There was another for strawberry brulée in a sweet sablé shell, and coeur à la crème-- a cream pudding set in a heart-shaped mould and encircled with fruit. 'In Venice, in the season of Alpine strawberries...' she wrote, and it didn't really matter what she said next, because you were already in.
In most recipes, the introduction serves the recipes. Jane's was the other way around. She wrote about the hybridized origins of modern strawberries in French market gardens, and how they feature in the mythology of the fertility goddess Frigg. After a few lines on the demanding anatomy of strawberry plants, she devoured into Jane Austen, talking about the agro-cosplay fruit-picking of the Regency ball-gown set. She refused to be complacent, especially about the things her readers already thought they knew. 'Strawberries, sugar and cream. The combination allows no improvement, you think?' Well, you're wrong.
None of this would've counted for much if the recipes weren't great, but they really were. One week she'd give you smart alternatives to traditional Christmas cake-- rounds of meringue stacked with coffee cream, or Grasmere shortcake with preserved ginger. Another week it'd be the unimpeachable precision of carrot salad, celery soup or a recipe for ice cream flavored with cooked, puréed apples. The cooking was pantheistic and it dealt with everything from kippers to apples, parsley, prunes and fennel with the same care, even love. We get smug these days about how broad our tastes are, and to an extent we're right. But a newspaper now would never run a double-page spread of recipes for tripe.
The magic of Jane Grigson is that though she was a smart cook, she was really a skilled purveyor of daydreams-- even if those daydreams were granular and exactingly researched. 'I sometimes think that the charm of a country's cookery lies not so much in its classic dishes as in its quirks and fancies,' she wrote. This included the esoterica of regional pies and rare apple cultivars. Something could be worthwhile without being useful. 'Walk into the yard of Château Mouton Rothschild,' began Jane's recipe for jellied rabbit, 'and you see a scatter of small fires. Some flare into the sky, others smoke as they are fed faggots of vine prunings.' Noisettes de porc aux pruneaux de Tours, crépinettes with chestnuts, carottes à la Vichy, angel's hair charlotte. She drew from the culinary canon as far back as Gervase Markham's seventeenth-century The English Huswife.”
― Ruby Tandoh, All Consuming: Why We Eat the Way We Eat Now

“Margaret and Jane didn't really get non-European food, even at a time when cooking from former and contemporary colonies-- India, Hong Kong at the time, Jamaica, Trinidad-- was working deeper into the canon. And they could be out of touch-- Margaret's bon viveur lifestyle, Jane's cottagecore cave house in rural France. Like a lot of food writers, Jane was interested in a fantasy kind of peasantry, but not the actual realities of shopping in a Tesco now.”
― Ruby Tandoh, All Consuming: Why We Eat the Way We Eat Now