The Lost Art of Mixing Quotes

“Suddenly she was seeing the buds on the cherry trees around her; she could feel the energy packed within them, a bouquet of fireworks whose fuse had already been lit. She could smell them, too, a subtle essence of pink and lollipops, the sweetness deepened by the scent of the slowly warming earth below them.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“We’re all just ingredients. What matters is the grace with which you cook the meal.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“Rituals, Al Decided, were a lot like numbers; they offered a comforting solidity in the otherwise chaotic floodtide of life. But it was more than that. A ritual was a way to hold time - not freezing it, rather the opposite, warming it through the touch of your imagination.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“Stories of her children when they were small, their round little bodies barely containing their personalities, which bloomed and glittered and melted into her.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“I think the occasion deserves a story.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“By the time Lillian had turned twelve years old, cooking had become her family. It had taught her lessons usually imparted by parents- economy from a limp head of celery left too long in the hydrator, perseverance from the whipping of heavy cream, the power of memories from oregano, whose flavor only grew stronger as it dried. Her love of new ingredients had brought her to Abuelita, the owner of the local Mexican grocery store, who introduced her to avocados and cilantro, and taught her the magic of matching ingredients with personalities to change a person's mood or a life. But the day when twelve-year-old Lillian had handed her mother an apple- fresh-picked from the orchard down the road on an afternoon when Indian summer gave over to autumn- and Lillian's mother had finally looked up from the book she was reading, food achieved a status for Lillian that was almost mystical.
"Look how you've grown," Lillian's mother had said, and life had started all over again. There was conversation at dinner, someone else's hand on the brush as it ran through her hair at night. A trip to New York, where they had discovered a secret fondue restaurant, hidden behind wooden shutters during the day, open by candlelight at night. Excursions to farmers' markets and bakeries and a shop that made its own cheese, stretching and pulling the mozzarella like taffy. Finally, Lillian felt like she was cooking for a mother who was paying attention, and she played in an open field of pearl couscous and Thai basil, paella and spanakopita and eggplant Parmesan.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“By the time Lillian had turned twelve ears old, cooking had become her family. It had taught her lessons usually imparted by parents- economy from a limp head of celery left too long in the hydrator, perseverance from the whipping of heavy cream, the power of memories from oregano, whose flavor only grew stronger as it dried. Her love of new ingredients had brought her to Abuelita, the owner of the local Mexican grocery store, who introduced her to avocados and cilantro, and taught her the magic of matching ingredients with personalities to change a person's mood or a life. But the day when twelve-year-old Lillian had handed her mother an apple- fresh-picked from the orchard down the road on an afternoon when Indian summer gave over to autumn- and Lillian's mother had finally looked up from the book she was reading, food achieved a status for Lillian that was almost mystical.
"Look how you've grown," Lillian's mother had said, and life had started all over again. There was conversation at dinner, someone else's hand on the brush as it ran through her hair at night. A trip to New York, where they had discovered a secret fondue restaurant, hidden behind wooden shutters during the day, open by candlelight at night. Excursions to farmers' markets and bakeries and a shop that made its own cheese, stretching and pulling the mozzarella like taffy. Finally, Lillian felt like she was cooking for a mother who was paying attention, and she played in an open field of pearl couscous and Thai basil, paella and spanakopita and eggplant Parmesan.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“There’s a difference between taking care of and caring for. That’s something I learned on my silly little walkabout, actually. Think about it.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“She had built her restaurant kitchen out of scents and tastes and textures, the clean canvas of a round white dinner plate, the firm skins of pears and the generosity of soft cheeses, the many-colored spices sitting in glass jars along the open shelves like a family portrait gallery. She belonged there.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“She'd seen it with Isabelle, the way things could become so permeated with memories that story was more important than function.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“Somewhere along the line, I'll screw up and hurt you," he said. "Everybody does. But that's not the point."
"What's the point?"
"The point is if you believe I would never do it on purpose - and if I believe the same of you. That's how you deal with stuff.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“She looked at the produce stalls, a row of jewels in a case, the colors more subtle in the winter, a Pantone display consisting only of greens, without the raspberries and plums of summer, the pumpkins of autumn. But if anything, the lack of variation allowed her mind to slow and settle, to see the small differences between the almost-greens and creamy whites of a cabbage and a cauliflower, to wake up the senses that had grown lazy and satisfied with the abundance of the previous eight months. Winter was a chromatic palate-cleanser, and she had always greeted it with the pleasure of a tart lemon sorbet, served in a chilled silver bowl between courses.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“It was interesting. Isabelle thought, the children that chose you. Some come through your body; others came in cars in the middle of the night.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“When it came to Lillian’s mother, her husband was more present in his absence,”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“Isabelle knew that more than anything, she wanted for her daughter to have her own life—to draw her own lines.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“It was interesting, Isabelle thought, the children that chose you. Some came through your body; others came in cars in the middle of the night. Sometimes it seemed as if the ones who had their own transportation were easier.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“It was intriguing how people came at their stories, Finnegan thought as he listened to Isabelle. He had learned to watch the gap between question and answer, having realized that the less obvious the connection the more interesting the material left unsaid. Diving into the gap yourself was rarely productive, but if allowed to talk uninterrupted, the storyteller would eventually build bridges across it, bridges made of memories that felt safe and familiar, anecdotes that had turned solid and durable with the retelling”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“She had begun to suspect that in order to live, sometimes you simply had to leap into the gap left by sorrow, the only hope that you would feel the solid ledge of the other side under your feet as you fell.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“September was a busy time of year for accounants, and not particularly Al's favorite. All the corporations that had filed extensions in April had to have their taxes in by the middle of September, with the procrastinating individuals following close behind. Al's clients who hadn't been able to get their finances together in the spring were even less inclined to now, any more than they wanted to tuck in the loose ends of their carefree summer spending... In September, accountants were firmly planted in the role of curmudgeon, grown-up when everyone wanted only to remember the feeling of bare feet for as long as possible.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“Acres of spice-covered almonds, blackberry and lavender honey, chocolate-covered cherries, their young saleswoman reaching forward with samples, her low-cut shirt selling more than fruit. The seafood shop, crabs lined up like a medieval armory, fish swimming through a sea of ice. Her ultimate goal was at the end of the aisle- a produce stand staffed by an elderly man who, some people joked, had been at the market since its beginning a hundred years before. George's offerings were the definition of freshness, corn kernels pillowing out of their husks, Japanese eggplant arranged like deep purple parentheses.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“She opened the kitchen door and the smells came to greet her. The sensual, come-hither scent of chocolate cake. Mint, for the customer who always liked hers fresh-picked for her late-night tea. Red pepper seeds and onion skins, waiting in the compost pail that Finnegan had not, she could tell, emptied last night. Cooked boar meat from a ragout sauce that was a winter tradition, the smell striding toward her like a strong, sweaty hunter.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“Mrs. Cohen cooked, too- beef stew that had simmered all day, pancakes that weren't pancakes but a combination of potatoes and onions and warmth that floated through the apartment and snuck into the pockets of his coat. And something she called a kugel, its name as playful as the smell of vanilla and sugar and cinnamon that came from the oven. But Al's favorite thing about being with Mrs. Cohen was Friday night. When he arrived, the apartment would be filled with the fragrance of chicken soup and there was always fresh-baked bread, its surface brown and glistening, lying in a fancy braid across the counter.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing

“It made Chloe wonder, how much could you hold in your arms if they weren't full of constantly falling pieces of yourself?”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Lost Art of Mixing