Yoghurt Quotes

“Beatha
- do Mháire Mhic Amhlaoibh,
An Fál Mór, Co. Mhaigh Eo.

- Níor airigh tú caint ar an slabhcán? -
arsa Mary Nell le hiontas,
an slabhcán a bhailíodh sí ina gearrchaile di
ar charraigreacha an Fháil Mhóir,
a thugadh sí abhaile
is a ghearradh go mion, é a bhruith ainsin le deoirín uisce.
Nuair a d'fhuaraíodh sé dhéanadh sí leac -
an blas a bhíodh air leis an ngráinne salainn!

Níor bhlais Mary Nell an slabhcán le dhá scór bliain:
- Ní bhadrálann éinne thart anseo a thuilleadh leis,
Róleitheadhach atá siad.
Ach an stuif sin a bhíonns ag fear an tsiopa
I bpotaí beaga a thigeann sé, dath pinc air -
'Yoghurt?'
- Yoghurt. Yoghurt!
M'anam go liveálfainn ar an stuif sin.
M'anam go liveálfainn air. - ”
― Tadhg Mac Dhonnagáin, INNTI: Uimhir a ceathair déag

“an invitation to lunch
HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT?
when I only have 16 cents and 2
packages of yoghurt
there's a lesson in that, isn't there
like in Chinese poetry when a leaf falls?
hold off on the yoghurt till the very
last, when everything may improve”
― Frank O'Hara, Lunch Poems

“Once I'd cunt licked these assemblages to orgasm - mother, daughter, yoghurt - we began cock fucking. OK, so I can't prove that the yoghurt had an orgasm but it is equally impossible to state definitively that it didn't. Amid all that woman becoming dog moaning, who is to say there wasn't yoghurt becoming woman moaning? Dog, woman, yoghurt, tongue, cunt, all played innumerable polymorphously perverse roles in our oral fucking. I got on top of one woman becoming man assemblage and battered my way into his twat, as I did this the other woman becoming man assemblage stroked, squeezed and caressed me. We moved around, ground around, prick penetrated new cunt. At some point arse became cunt and finger became prick. Cunt arse, prick finger, orgasm.”
― Stewart Home, Cunt

“Purées of plum or dusky berries float on glass pots of yoghurt; scallops and oysters quiver on the half-shell and platters of sashimi sit on jagged crystals of crushed ice. Slices of boiled bacon with a mustard glaze are arranged in a soldierly line; poached white fish is wantonly sprinkled with spring onions; a mixture of aubergines and minced pork and another of hot and leafy mustard greens bask in chafing dishes next to stainless-steel cauldrons of miso soup. There are wicker baskets of dumplings steaming and a whole table of ingredients--- rice, eggs, greens and soy sauce--- with which to build your own bibimbap.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“The fruits scorch in the fierce heat. The smell of plum jam fills the kitchen. Flesh bubbles, edges blacken, plum juices burst from their skins and mingle with the honey and lemon. Twenty minutes later they emerge, collapsed in a pool of deepest purple-red. I twist the lid from a bottle of rosewater, hand-made, no label, and shake drops over the scorched fruit. A scent of rose, sweet fruit and honey. We let the fruit rest for ten minutes.
The roasted plums are served on an old tin dish, a mound of salted labneh at their side, the juices seeping into the soft, thick yoghurt like lipstick into a pantomime dame's pancake make-up. I rain a pinch of dried rose petals over the surface and offer them up. We spoon the soft fruit and labneh into our mouths, then lift the dishes to our lips to drink the last drop of rose-perfumed juice.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“This isn’t the lunch I’d planned for myself,” Babette said. “I was seriously thinking yogurt and wheat germ.”
“Where have we heard that before?” Denise said.
“Probably right here,” Steffie said.
“She keeps buying that stuff.”
“But she never eats it,” Steffie said.
“Because she thinks if she keeps buying it, she’ll have to eat it just to get rid of it. It’s like she’s trying to trick herself.”
“It takes up half the kitchen.”
“But she throws it away before she eats it because it goes bad,” Denise said. “So then she starts the whole thing all over again.”
“Wherever you look,” Steffie said, “there it is.”
“She feels guilty if she doesn’t buy it, she feels guilty if she buys it and doesn’t eat it, she feels guilty when she sees it in the fridge, she feels guilty when she throws it away.”
“It’s like she smokes but she doesn’t,” Steffie said.”
― Don DeLillo, White Noise