Oranges Quotes

“When oranges came in, a curious proceeding was gone through. Miss Jenkyns did not like to cut the fruit, for, as she observed, the juice all ran out nobody knew where, sucking [only I think she used some more recondite word] was in fact the only way of enjoying oranges; but then there was the unpleasant association with a ceremony frequently gone through by little babies; and so, after dessert, in orange season, Miss Jenkyns and Miss Matty used to rise up, possess themselves each of an orange in silence, and withdraw to the privacy of their own rooms to indulge in sucking oranges.”
― Elizabeth Gaskell, Cranford

“The smile that curled his lips was as arrogant as it was beautiful.

“You need to accept the fact that you’re Orange and that you’re always going to be alone because of it.” A measure of calm had returned to Clancy’s voice. His nostrils flared when I tried to turn the door handle again. He slammed both hands against it to keep me from going anywhere, towering over me.

“I saw what you want,” Clancy said. “And it’s not your parents. It’s not even your friends. What you want is to be with him, like you were in the cabin yesterday, or in that car in the woods. I don’t want to lose you, you said. Is he really that important?”

Rage boiled up from my stomach, burning my throat. “How dare you? You said you wouldn’t—you said—”

He let out a bark of laughter. “God, you’re naive. I guess this explains how that League woman was able to trick you into thinking you were something less than a monster.”

“You said you would help me,” I whispered.

He rolled his eyes. “All right, are you ready for the last lesson? Ruby Elizabeth Daly, you are alone and you always will be. If you weren’t so stupid, you would have figured it out by now, but since it’s beyond you, let me spell it out: You will never be able to control your abilities. You will never be able to avoid being pulled into someone’s head, because there’s some part of you that doesn’t want to know how to control them. No, not when it would mean having to embrace them. You’re too immature and weak-hearted to use them the way they’re meant to be used. You’re scared of what that would make you.”

I looked away.

“Ruby, don’t you get it? You hate what you are, but you were given these abilities for a reason. We both were. It’s our right to use them—we have to use them to stay ahead, to keep the others in their place.”

His finger caught the stretched-out collar of my shirt and gave it a tug.

“Stop it.” I was proud of how steady my voice was.

As Clancy leaned in, he slipped a hazy image beneath my closed eyes—the two of us just before he walked into my memories. My stomach knotted as I watched my eyes open in terror, his lips pressed against mine.

“I’m so glad we found each other,” he said, voice oddly calm. “You can help me. I thought I knew everything, but you…”

My elbow flew up and clipped him under the chin. Clancy stumbled back with a howl of pain, pressing both hands to his face. I had half a second to get the hell out, and I took it, twisting the handle of the door so hard that the lock popped itself out.

“Ruby! Wait, I didn’t mean—!”

A face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Lizzie. I saw her lips part in surprise, her many earrings jangling as I shoved past her.

“Just an argument,” I heard Clancy say, weakly. “It’s fine, just let her go.”
― Alexandra Bracken, The Darkest Minds

“Day 72


I remember oranges and you don’t mind me leaving the queue momentarily to find some. When you say, Of course, you reach for my arm in sympathy and recognition. This may be the thing that breaks me today, that stops me in my tracks before driving me forward, turning a corner, making something work, letting everything happen. When I return, you’re touching my yoghurts, reading the ingredients, as though you are making them yours, protecting them in my absence and amusing yourself with the cherry-ness of them. On days like this, I want to take my strangers home with me.”
― Gemma Seltzer, Speak to Strangers

“You turned oranges into a weapon, Violence?'

I wiggle to a sitting position and shrug. 'I worked with what I had.”
― Rebecca Yarros, Fourth Wing

“I pretended like all the oranges rolling everywhere were her happy memories and they were looking for a new person to stick to so they didn't get wasted.”
― Stephen Kelman, Pigeon English

“Did you ever sleep in a field of orange-trees in bloom? The air which one inhales deliciously is a quintessence of perfumes. This powerful and sweet smell, as savoury as a sweetmeat, seems to penetrate one, to impregnate, to intoxicate, to induce languor, to bring about a dreamy and somnolent torpor. It is like opium prepared by fairy hands and not by chemists.”
― Guy de Maupassant, 88 Short Stories

“Stolen oranges also have Vitamin C. Likewise, a stolen salmon, too, has omega-3 fatty acids.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“The orange tree took time to create this masterpiece.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh

“Oh yes," said Randolph stretching his legs , lighting a mentholated cigarette, "do not take it seriously, what you see here: it's only a joke played on myself by myself... it amuses and horrifies... a rather gaudy grave, you might say. There is no daytime in this room, or night, the seasons are changeless here, and the years, and when I die, if indeed I haven't already, then let me be dead drunk and curled, as in my mother's womb, in the warm blood of darkness. Wouldn't that be an ironic finale for one who, deep in his goddamned soul, sought sweetly the clean-limbed life? bread and water, a simple roof to share with some beloved, nothing more.”
― Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

“There was a pleasantness to the air and a spirit about the town that did not come from its color, but from some inner, tasty citrus quality. It made Alexia wonder fancifully if cities could have souls.”
― gail carriger, Blameless

“A breeze, vanilla-scented, nutmeg milk, dark roast of cocoa beans over a slow fire.
It isn't magic. Really it isn't. It's just a trick, a game I play. There's no such thing as real magic- and yet it works. Sometimes, it works.
Can you hear me? I said. Not in my voice, but a shadow-voice, very light, like dappled leaves.
She felt it then. I know she did. Turning, she stiffened; I made the door shine a little, ever so slightly, the color of the sky. Played with it, pretty, like a mirror in the sun, shining it on and off her face.
Scent of woodsmoke in a cup; a dash of cream, sprinkle of sugar. Bitter orange, your favorite, 70 percent darkest chocolate over thick-cut oranges from Seville. Try me. Taste me. Test me.”
― Joanne Harris, The Girl with No Shadow

“Once I hit my head on concrete and saw saints, oranges, dizzy blood. My skull almost split like a cleaved fruit. To be taken seriously a woman has to become nothing but a wound.”
― Brynne Rebele-Henry, Autobiography of a Wound: Poems

“Missouri Ann ate her bit of orange slowly. "Tastes like summer," she said.”
― Sandra Dallas, A Quilt for Christmas

“My mouth- always so active, alert- could now generally identify forty of fifty states in the produce or meat I ate. I had taken to tracking those more distant elements on my plate, and each night, at dinner, a U.S. map would float up in my mind as I chewed and I'd use it to follow the nuances in the parsley sprig, the orange wedge, and the baked potato to Florida, California, and Kansas, respectively. I could sometimes trace eggs to the county. All the while, listening to my mother talk about carpentry, or spanking the bottle of catsup. It was a good game for me, because even though it did command some of my attention, it also distracted me from the much louder and more difficult influence of the mood of the food maker, which ran the gamut. I could be half aware of the conversation, cutting up the meat, and the rest of the time I was driving truck routes through the highways of America, truck beds full of yellow onions. When I went to the supermarket with my mother I double-checked all my answers, and by the time I was twelve, I could distinguish an orange slice from California from an orange slice from Florida in under five seconds because California's was rounder-tasting, due to the desert ground and the clear tangy water of far-flung irrigation.”
― Aimee Bender, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

“The salmon is perfectly cooked. The trace amounts of sugar contained in the wheat flour have combined with the butter in a chemical reaction that's creating a wonderful fragrance. It was all fried together for precisely the right amount of time to create a superb Meunière."
"The squid liver was quickly sautéed in a dollop of butter as well, taking a bite of that with the Meunière is sublime! The butter's flavor gently wraps around the salty and pleasantly bitter taste of the liver, giving it a beautifully mellow body."
"He added pomegranate seeds and tonburi to the soy sauce marinated roe! Those three completely disparate flavors meld into a seamless whole thanks to butter! Not only does it have an amusing texture, the roe doesn't have its typical greasiness either!"
*Tonburi, also called land caviar, is the seeds of the summer cypress plant. It's texture is similar to caviar.*
He's used mounds of butter in so many different facets of the dish, but it somehow hasn't made the flavor heavy at all. The secret to that lies in the bed of special sushi rice hidden underneath the seafood!
"This sushi rice was made not with vinegar but with orange juice and lemon juice!"
"So that's why he was squeezing that mountain of oranges!"”
― Yuto Tsukuda, 食戟のソーマ 28 [Shokugeki no Souma 28]

“Oranges don't have nipples," says Sophie”
― Becky Albertalli, Yes No Maybe So

“Someone brought me oranges in my despair
but I could not eat a one”
― Anne Sexton, The Awful Rowing Toward God

“Oranges will never make a pineapple Sunday.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“I tried to build an igloo out of the orange peel but it kept falling down and even when it stood up I didn't have an eskimo to put in it, so I had to invent a story about 'How Eskimo Got Eaten,' which made me even more miserable. It's always the same with diversions; you get involved.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

“Cady had drawn a goblet filled with layers of peaches and brown sugar and rum and shortbread crumbs, topped with maple whipped cream.
"I love the Scottish shortbread in here. Let's add a cookie to the top." Elliott drew that onto the picture.
"I'll make some candied violets for a garnish. It will look spectacular. And since Elliott has now been trained, he can be my sous-chef." Cady smirked.
Elliott chuckled and patted Cady on the head. "Nice try. I approve of the candied violets, especially since Jenny will adore that idea." He added some more notations onto the menu. "And let's cut the richness of this meal with a little palate cleanser between the entrée and dessert. How about tipsy oranges?"
"Oh. That sounds good. How do you make that?" She leaned closer to him, needing to feel his heat. He pressed his arm against hers, instinctively reacting to her needs. How had this happened so fast? This connection between them?
"Easiest thing in the world. Section the orange, drizzle Drambuie on top, sprinkle some brown sugar on there and broil quickly to get the sugar bubbling. Add some fresh mint. A quick, refreshing stop before Cady's decadent dessert.”
― Penny Watson, A Taste of Heaven

“Forty-five minutes later, Troy and Hannah returned with a speeding ticket, a pan of fresh salmon, one black truffle, three tins of caviar, a covered box of mushrooms, and twelve filet mignons that had originally been intended to be served with a spicy Gorgonzola sauce of shiitake mushrooms and chipotle chilies. That sauce now coated a good portion of the highway.
"Start slicing the beef," ordered Carmen, "and make it paper thin. We're going to wrap it around the green onions we already have here, and God help me, we're going to make it stretch."
The salmon was quickly thrown into the Aga to bake, then drizzled with a vanilla-infused vegetable oil and sprinkled with roe.
"We're going to run out of plates," said Oliver.
"Good thing I saw more potatoes in the pantry," said Carmen. "We'll make smaller galettes, and use them as though they were plates."
"What do you want me to do with the mushrooms?" Troy was rubbing each mushroom with a clean soft cloth, as Oliver had instructed him.
"Get them started in a pan with a little olive oil, and we'll brown them with some of our fresh garlic and the thyme from Gus's garden," said Carmen. "We'll finish them with a few drops of sherry. Hannah!"
Hannah waited for her marching orders.
"Find those oranges I saw you pigging out on earlier, and bring them to the stovetop."
"And then what?" said Hannah.
"Then it's time for you to cook," said Carmen. "You're going to create a syrup from red wine, a little zest, cinnamon, and sugar, and let it simmer for a half hour. We'll cool it in an ice bath and drench the oranges.”
― Kate Jacobs, Comfort Food

“A dinner party would not be satisfied with ices and rice puddings. I tried to think what Mr Roland would have done. At least an impressive gateau. I thumbed through the cookery books. Mille-feuilles cake à la chantilly. Yes, I could do that. I could always guarantee that pastry would turn out well. And oranges were abundant here. An orange cream served in orange shells? That seemed doable, too. And for a third? I thought of a bread and butter pudding, to remind them of home, but alas we had no stale bread. This was one of the disadvantages of being in someone else's kitchen. So I decided I couldn't go wrong with profiteroles- who doesn't like them?”
― Rhys Bowen, Above the Bay of Angels

“In the produce section she stopped to inhale the smell of so many oranges- Valencia, blood, juice, navel- net bags of limes, stacks of pineapples. The hygienic overtones of bleach were also in the air and she sniffed at the scent of chlorine as though it were a delicacy. She picked up a watermelon as big as a child, lifting it with difficulty into her cart. A sheaf of plantains. Peaches thick with fuzz.
She chose bottled waters from Maine and Italy, from Germany and France, then proud-colored squeeze bottles of Joy and Cheer, Dove and Palmolive. She reached for high-protein cereals and protein bars, granola with cranberries, Cap'n Crunch. She explored the store, lapping up the light, listening to the music with its brave half-heard songs of love lost and found.
Naomi passed by the stacks of mammalian flesh cut into portions wrapped in tight plastic. She lingered at the fish counter to contemplate the blackness of the mussels, the glistening dislocated stripes of the mackerel, the rosy pinkness of the salmon fillets arrayed on the ice. Here were animals still with their eyes on, red snapper and Mediterranean black bass. In a tank of greenish water, lobsters swam with halting deliberation; she pursed her lips and gave a furtive salute, her fingers held like claws.”
― Grace Dane Mazur, The Garden Party: A Novel

“That is curious, no doubt about it,” remarked
Vincent.
Harrison nodded. “Oh, that’s not the half of it! It was
strange in itself and startled me quite a bit, but I was even more startled when I returned home that evening and actually had a look at the oranges for the first time.”
The three siblings blinked at him.
“The oranges… were startling?”
Harrison chuckled. “No, Miss Helene, not the actual
oranges; rather what they were wrapped in.”
― Bethany Willcock, Joy

“And this is Isabella's nonna's, made with the whole Moro orange from her grove--- pulped into the mix and no dusting, no glaze. Plain."
"You mean perfect," says Isabella, scolding Luca.
There was no doubting Isabella's would win. The pulp added something even softer and more luscious to the crumb. If the cake we had yesterday, warm from the oven, was divine, this was magic.
"I told you," says Luca. "The orange."”
― Lizzy Dent, Just One Taste

“Keep calm and carry oranges.”
― Pinterest, I guess

“We sat under the orange trees,
whose branches bowed with offering,
globes of sun dangling like promises,
wax-skinned and fragrant,
dripping light through their leaves
in dapples that flickered like fireflies.”
― Avalon Ash, Time With Trees: 1995–2025, A Collected Work

“The wicker basket of gnarled and dimpled bitter oranges is glowing like a beacon, the fruits flashed here and there with viridian, their skins tight to the flesh beneath. Each one sports a bright-green button, which is all that is left of its stem. The words 'Seville oranges', written in red, are as welcome as the sight of the first pink stalks of rhubarb, or lemons with their glossy leaves intact. I buy two kilos and take them home with a spring in my step-- a brown paper carrier bag of sunshine on a clear and frosty January morning.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“Off the hob, the orange jam is left to settle for a few minutes, then stirred and ladled into glass jars. Four pots of glistening amber, the curls of peel suspended like jewels in the deep-orange jelly. The kitchen is still cold, and with the scent of oranges and syrup in the air I feel the urge to make a rack of toast.
Marmalade is always a pot of joy. Button-bright, glistening and quivering on a spoon, it has none of the cloying sweetness of honey, a clarion call to the start of the day. Whisper it: this thick orange jam does not feel quite right at any other time of day. It glows like a candle on the greyest January morning, cheering us out of the door to work. No preserve causes such controversy, thick-cut or hair-thin, dark or pale, softly set or firm. Mine will be barely set, light in color and as much golden jelly as peel.
Any morning now, the garden white with frost, I will pick up one of the jars I have filled today, twist off the glossy black lid and inhale. I will dip in my spoon, spread the lumpy jam onto a piece of hot toast, wipe a bittersweet tear of syrup from the crust and start my day.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“They were chocolate-covered orange slices, each slice perfect and plump as a jewel, with smooth-as-silk chocolate encasing half of them. She felt a lump in her throat. She hadn't known he'd been listening when she talked about oranges weeks ago. He'd barely liked her then. In fact, she was certain he hadn't.
All of a sudden, it felt like her family was here with her, even though they hadn't yet written back to the letter she'd sent--- it had been picked up by a passing sailor weeks ago, but no boat had returned with a response. Still, here was a bit of home.
Terlu blinked quickly.
"You don't like them?" he said, concerned. "I know you said you remembered candied oranges from your Winter Feast, but then I thought with your story about the orange tree..."
"It's perfect," she said. "You're perfect.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Enchanted Greenhouse