Omelet Quotes

“Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

“Here’s a little mote of wisdom: Not everyone who claims to be an expert, is indeed an expert. Please note: I have never claimed to be an expert on anything except perhaps making the perfect omelet, and if you don’t like spicy, you’d probably argue with me on that one, too. In fact, anyone claiming to be an expert on anything, in my opinion, should immediately be viewed with suspicion, or be able to produce a PhD Diploma on the subject he or she is professing to be expert in.”
― Chris A. Jackson

“He said that mixing an omelet was a lot like mixing paint: the eggs were my basic palette, and then I could build tastes out of whatever ingredients I had around.”
― Jordan Weisman, Cathy's Key

“It was the best omelet Adrienne had ever eaten. Perfectly cooked so that the eggs were soft and buttery. Filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms and melted Camembert cheese. There were three roasted cherry tomatoes on the plate, skins splitting, oozing juice. Nutty wheat toast. Thatch had brought butter and jam to the table. The butter was served like a tiny cheesecake on a small pedestal under a glass dome. The jam was apricot, homemade, served from a Ball jar.”
― Elin Hilderbrand, The Blue Bistro

“An egg is a chemical process, but it is not a mere chemical process. It is one that is going places—even when, in our world of chance and contingency, it ends up in an omelet and not in a chicken. Though it surely be a chemical process, we cannot understand it adequately without knowing the kind of chicken it has the power to become.”
― John Randall

“Can't make an egg without breaking a few metaphors.”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Starless Sea

“Eggs appear at breakfast in a variety of forms, often as tamagoyaki. You've met this sweetened omelet at your local sushi place, where it's considered beginner sushi. In Tokyo, good tamagoyaki is an object of lust. Cut into thick blocks and served at room temperature, a creamy monolith of tamagoyaki is somehow the antithesis of American breakfast eggs. It can be made at home in a special square or rectangular frying pan, but it's also for sale in supermarkets, at depachika, and at Tsukiji fish market. Most people who aren't sushi chefs buy it. My tamagoyaki-making skills are nonexistent, but I sometimes flavor beaten eggs with soy sauce, dashi, and mirin and make an omelet to eat with rice and nori.”
― Matthew Amster-Burton, Pretty Good Number One: An American Family Eats Tokyo

“How specialized do restaurants get in Japan? Every weekday at lunchtime, people queue up on a side street just south of Ningyōchō Station, in an old Tokyo neighborhood. They're waiting to get into Tamahide, a restaurant that (at lunchtime) serves one dish, oyakodon. Written with the characters for "parent" and "child," oyakodon is a runny chicken omelet (get it?) served over rice. There are very few ingredients to this dish: chicken, egg, and rice, soy sauce, mirin, and sugar. There is no vegetarian version, no low-carb salad version, no side dishes other than a tiny dish of pickles perched atop the lid of your bowl. If you're not in the mood for diced chicken meat, however, you can order the dish with chicken liver or ground chicken.”
― Matthew Amster-Burton, Pretty Good Number One: An American Family Eats Tokyo

“There's a recipe from the medieval book that she wants to try- an omelet fried in oil and garlic, a stuffing of crushed walnuts, hot green chili peppers, and pomegranate seeds. She goes to the cabinets and the refrigerator and begins to work while her uncle sits at the table and opens his history of Constantinople. She stands at the table, peeling and mincing onions, then fries the omelet lightly, turning it once, and its aroma is rich and complicated.
The dish is sweet, tender, and so delicious that it's virtually ephemeral, the eggs dissolving in their mouths.”
― Diana Abu-Jaber, Crescent

“My cousin doesn't know my name, so he calls me Marie The 13th. I told him, "Please, call me Mr. The 13th. Marie is my father's name." Family reunions are always awkward because nobody there is related to me. Still, I give them all discounts on BearPaw Duck Farm omelets.”
― Jarod Kintz, BearPaw Duck And Meme Farm presents: Two Ducks Brawling Is A Pre-Pillow Fight

“If I did sales - my technique would be to hand-seal each deal with gourmet omelets, by Jarod Kintz's secret invisible recipe that I stole.”
― Will Advise, Nothing is here...

“Some people smoked when they were upset, some did yoga, or drank, or paced, or picked fights, or counted to one hundred. Georgia cooked.
As a small girl growing up in Massachusetts, she'd spent most of her time in her grandmother's kitchen, watching wide-eyed as Grammy kneaded the dough for her famous pumpernickel bread, sliced up parsnips and turnips for her world-class pot roast, or, if she was feeling exotic, butterflied shrimp for her delicious Thai basil seafood. A big-boned woman of solid peasant stock, as she herself used to say, Grammy moved around the cramped kitchen with grace and efficiency, her curly gray hair twisted into a low bun. Humming pop songs from the forties, her cheeks a pleasing pink, she turned out dish after fabulous dish from the cranky Tappan stove she refused to replace. Those times with Grammy were the happiest Georgia could remember. It had been almost a year since she died, and not a day passed that Georgia didn't miss her.
She pulled out half a dozen eggs, sliced supermarket Swiss and some bacon from the double-width Sub-Zero. A quick scan of the spice rack yielded a lifetime supply of Old Bay seasoning, three different kinds of peppercorns, and 'sel de mer' from France's Brittany coast. People's pantries were as perplexing as their lives.”
― Jenny Nelson, Georgia's Kitchen

“Buttermilk pancakes weren't typically equipped to fill gaping holes in one's heart, but the ones I ate that day at Howie's came pretty darn close. My first bite of Wilma's Cakes made my mouth water while eating. They were spongy and light but still had some gumption. The buttermilk seemed to be paired with something fantastic- sour cream? Crème fraîche? Not here, certainly... There were subtle notes of nutmeg and cinnamon, just the right touch without the pancake turning into a spice fest.
I moaned while I bit into a raspberry muffin.
"Exactly," Manda said, her eyes closed around the joy of a pecan roll. "Better than you-know-what."
"Watch it, now," Jack said, but without heart. His bacon, asparagus, and goat cheese omelet was nearly gone, but he ate with one protective arm curled around his plate in defense anyway.”
― Kimberly Stuart, Sugar

“It had looked so simple when she'd made it, but when he cut into it and tasted it, he realized he'd missed some stuff while he'd been making coffee. There were herbs in there or spices or something, and the egg was light- Fluffy, he thought- and the pepper still had crunch to it but was buttery, too.”
― Jennifer Crusie, Agnes and the Hitman

“Of course you might get shot, but you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs." She handed him a plate of deviled eggs. "Have one.”
― Jennifer Crusie, Agnes and the Hitman

“You'll be fine," she said to Rico when they got back, because he was still studying her and trying to make sense of her bizarre swings. "Cooking eggs is a standard test of basic cooking skill."
"I know I'll be fine," he said, the full blast of his focus mapping her relief. The emeralds in his eyes were too bright. The way they had been that first time they'd met under the bleachers. The need to see what no one else cared to see inside her, intense and naked. It had disarmed her then.
Today, it infuriated her. Made her brain forget the camera. Made her hands fly. She broke the eggs in a clean one-handed crack, whipped them ruthlessly into a thick froth, chopped the onions, cilantro, and green chilies in an unrelentingly brutal rhythm. All without breaking a sweat or sparing him a glance.
With minutes to spare from the mere twenty they were given, she turned out a fluffy and perfectly moist omelet with garlic-infused oil rolled into a crisp, flaky paratha.
Until they stood in front of the judges, she had forgotten where she was, who she was with.
The only place the livid energy inside her seemed to have manifested itself was in what the judges declared "abject underseasoning."
This made Ashna smile. When she looked at Rico, he was having the same reaction. For one quick meeting of their eyes, the ridiculously overdramatic statement joined them together with shared humor. His lips tilted up on one side. For the first time since they'd lined up to hear the challenge, she took a full breath.”
― Sonali Dev, Recipe for Persuasion

“Belatedly, she cut herself a wedge of toast with omelet and lifted it into her mouth. It was nearly-but-not-quite-hot enough to burn her tongue. She tasted the sharpness of the onion, the smoothness of the egg--- somehow he'd managed to make it light and creamy, unlike the rubbery eggs she'd eaten in the library--- and the tang of the tomato.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“Do you know how to make a kuku?"
Kuku, a fluffy egg dish with herbs, had numerous varieties. "What kind?"
His mouth tipped up in the corner. "You choose."
Roxannah had learned her first kuku from her grandparents' head cook, a man who hailed from a populous village near the Caspian Sea. He had taught her this recipe, a specialty of his region. Quietly, she collected the ingredients she needed: dill, cilantro, parsley, a bit of fenugreek, barberries, onions, garlic, and chives. Sisy showed her where to find the spices. When Roxannah reached for the eggs, the dairy assistant threw her a filthy look. But he could do nothing to stop her since she was obeying Cook's orders.
The trick to making a good kuku lay in achieving the right balance of herbs and eggs. Sautéing the onions and garlic until golden, she set them aside. In the same pan, she added a touch more butter and fried a large handful of barberries, sweetened with a spoon of honey. Their tangy flavor and ruby-red color would create the perfect topping for the dish.”
― Tessa Afshar, The Queen's Cook

“I poured the silvery whites over my broth and used my chopsticks to make a mass of shimmering ribbons until the sauce transformed into a galaxy of miniature birds. I split the pot into three tureens--- one for Indulgence, his dragon, and one for the Empress.
The garnishing sauce was done.
As for the omurice, it'd be far more elaborate. I piled the fried rice into two separate mountains, ready for their canopy of gold. The trick was to cook the omelet evenly and then twirl it onto the rice, making a beautiful swirled blanket on top. I made a spicy gravy to dribble over it to give it a shine, and the final garnish was minced spring onions. The emerald green contrasted against the golden omelet.”
― Roselle Lim, Celestial Banquet

“He drained his first cup of sake, then maneuvered his chopsticks toward their first destination: the thick shrimp-paste omelet. Layered and rolled into a fragrant cakelike sponge, it was an irresistible combination of savory and sweet--- just the way Takayuki liked it.
Next, he began loosening the various elements from the willow skewer and popping them into his mouth. The shrimp dumplings were succulent, the salted cucumber refreshing, and the quail meatballs--- which included the soft bones ground up in the paste--- dense with rich flavor.”
― Jesse Kirkwood, The Menu of Happiness