Food - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
"Millions of children and their family members die every year from malnutrition in a world able to produce enough food, who will be their voices and witness this rolling holocaust? "Malnutrition as a side effect of a money-nexus world needs challenging, these hungry kids need champions. Who will answer their call? Who will look into real pragmatic solutions and put them into action? Who will free them from this torture and give them good health?"
Alfie could put anything on a pizza and make it taste fabulous, I swear he could. There were the days he pulled a plain cheese from the oven just to make us laugh, but most days it was an edible form of his crazy wonderful imagination. It was the thing we looked forward to the most after our day. Nothing surprises us anymore, but we're still amazed each time supper comes around.
Sasha tool a bite of the omlette, cheesy with dark leafy greens. She smiled, "Tamal, that's so good, what's the green stuff?"
With a boyish grin he raised his brows, opening up his eyes, "Stinging nettle, chives and dandelion leaves."
Sasha paused as if her thoughts had stopped entirely, "Holy. That tastes good."
He gave a shrug, the one he always gave when he was proud of himself but tickled with his own shyness. "Chuck out the stems from the dandelions, boil the rest together for a few minutes, cold water, squeeze, chop. That's it. Sting all gone. Eat what wants to grow, easy."
But the real star is the food. Tables laden with delicacies line the walls. Everything you can think of, and things you have never dreamed of, lie in wait. Whole roasted cows and pigs and goats still turning on spits. Huge platters of fowl stuffed with savoury fruit and nuts. Ocean creatures drizzled in sauces or begging to be dipped in spicy concoctions. Countless cheeses, breads, vegetables, sweets, waterfalls of wine, and streams of spirits that flicker with flames.
The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice.
Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef slices as thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes. The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters an glasses full.
He licked his fleshy lips and grabbed a handful of oily h’ors devoures. They were little shrimps, fried to a crisp. He placed a pile of shrimp on his plate and drenched them in creamy, sweet sauce. He pudgy hand clenched the oil soaked shrimp and stuffed them into his mouth. His licked his fingers, smeared with cream and oil. He crunched another handful of crispy shrimp. He snatched a large chicken leg and a large steak. He saturated them in the rich, sweet sauce and popped a large chunk of steak into his mouth. The steak was too thick to chew with his mouth closed, not that he was concerned. He practically owned the kingdom, he just had to make the deal official. He dabbed his fleshy cheeks with a delicate napkin before speaking.
The waiter arrived with Alex's orange juice and the first course: two plates of ravioli. The little white parcels were wonderfully fresh, filled with wild mushrooms, and served with a salad of mixed greens and parmesan cheese. Alex tasted one. He had to admit that the food was as delicious as Mrs Rothman had promised.
My mouth watered the moment I spotted the strawberries. Fresh crimson berries covered with a mountain of tangy sweet whipped cream. Rich grainy brown sugar covering the sweet airy perfection.
She peeled away the oily corn husks wrapped around the tamale, the grease coating her fingers. She took a bite of the blend of cornmeal, chicken, and cream cheese. The cream cheese was smooth while the chicken felt rough, but, nonetheless, the meat tasted immensely satisfying. The warm mixture was pure a ambrosia in her mouth.
Evelyn brought the fresh, warm bread to her nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled rich, promising a delightful taste. Picking up a knife, she applied copious amounts of thick, creamy yellow butter. She spooned out a dollop of sweet, tangy blackberry jelly. Evelyn slathered the sweet mixture onto the spongy white bread. She ripped off a chunk, stuffing the piece into her mouth. It was soft and warm. The pleasant smoothness of the butter blended perfectly with the bitter-sweet taste of black berries.
He held a wooden platter towards her. There was a piece of warm bread with a slab of melting yellow butter and a thick, hearty slice of roasted pork. She felt no need for pretentious manners and grabbed the pork, ripping a chunk off with her teeth.
"Vivre de pain, d'amour, et d'eau fraiche" Live on bread, love and fresh water.
They were sitting on the restaurant terrace, which overlooked the sea, eating fish - as fresh as Alex had ever tasted - served with rice, salad and black beans.
I walk into the kitchen, there's no-one around. Immediately, I hear sounds, whispering in my left frontal lobe - faint voices in another language. The muffled whispers come from the refrigerator. Of course, I investigate. I am greeted by a cheery light as I open the friendly door, and feel that pleasant wave of coolness. Now, the voices are clear, and in the language from the "Land of Taste buds.” Ham grabs my nose right away, “Smell this, my old friend. Think about me on wheat bread with mayo.” The siren call of left over pound cake comes, “And you know how you love me.” She invites, “Consider my sweetness, Sweetness.” Then, a full menu parade, singing in all flavors of tasty serenade. The crescendo swells the voices up to powerful smell. “You cannot resist, because we insist that you taste some of that, and this.” I close the door as I command, “Pound cake and ham, get thee behind me. Scram!“ They turn suddenly silent, pouting inside. But I know from the growl from my digestive canal that next time they call, they win.
Elliot stared at her food which was nothing more than peas, chicken broth that had been heated and reheated for days, and stale bread, slightly wet from the market which was brought at a cheaper cost because of the sloppy quality. She behaved well, never had any complaints about the food. She happily consumed it even if it tasted rough and unpleasant against her throat.
The smell of cooking food is what a serenade is to the ears of musicians.
The rich aroma of the dish wafted down and beckoned you.You could not resist the delightful sensations that whipped up inside your memory at the mere thought of delving your teeth deep and fast into the pulpy texture of the pizza. Cheese spread atop in copious amounts and the wide assortment of condiments sprinkled in the perfect amounts mingle to produce a taste unlike any other: salty, peppery, cheesy with a whiff of Italian cuisine and a tinge of Greek taste.
The seed, sunshine and soil are free, yet for access humans demand a fee. Perhaps we should share food as cooperative species do, working together for the good of all.