Lillian Quotes

“I can't get it out," she said.

"Just pull at it."

"It hurts. It's throbbing."

"Pull harder."

"I can't! It's truly stuck. I need something to make it slippery. Do you have some sort of lubricant nearby?"

"No."

"Not anything?"

"Much as it may surprise you, we've never needed lubricant in the library before now.”
― Lisa Kleypas, It Happened One Autumn

“Love is willing to become to villain so that the one who you love can stay a hero.”
― Josephine Angelini, Firewalker

“Good God-is there nothing you won't stoop to?"

"If there is," Lillian replied smartly, "I haven't discovered it yet.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Secrets of a Summer Night

“Her eyes are so wild and bright they almost look like stars.”
― Brenna Yovanoff, Paper Valentine

“She bruised easily, in dark purple smudges like in blooming on tissue paper.”
― Brenna Yovanoff, Paper Valentine

“She glanced at Evie, who flashed her a smile, and Annabelle, whose face was reassuringly calm. They would help each other through all the challenges and joys and fears of their lives, Daisy thought, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with love for all of them.
“I will never live away from you,” she said. “I want the four of us to be together always. I could never bear to lose any of you.”
She felt Annabelle’s slippered toe nudge her leg affectionately. “Daisy…you can never lose a true friend.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“Swift came to the table and bowed politely. “My lady,” he said to Lillian, “what a pleasure it is to see you again. May I offer my renewed congratulations on your marriage to Lord Westcliff, and…” He hesitated, for although Lillian was obviously pregnant, it would be impolite to refer to her condition. “…you are looking quite well,” he finished.
“I’m the size of a barn,” Lillian said flatly, puncturing his attempt at diplomacy.
Swift’s mouth firmed as if he was fighting to suppress a grin. “Not at all,” he said mildly, and glanced at Annabelle and Evie.
They all waited for Lillian to make the introductions.
Lillian complied grudgingly. “This is Mr. Swift,” she muttered, waving her hand in his direction. “Mrs. Simon Hunt and Lady St. Vincent.”
Swift bent deftly over Annabelle’s hand. He would have done the same for Evie except she was holding the baby.
Isabelle’s grunts and whimpers were escalating and would soon become a full-out wail unless something was done about it.
“That is my daughter Isabelle,” Annabelle said apologetically. “She’s teething.”
That should get rid of him quickly, Daisy thought. Men were terrified of crying babies.
“Ah.” Swift reached into his coat and rummaged through a rattling collection of articles. What on earth did he have in there? She watched as he pulled out his pen-knife, a bit of fishing line and a clean white handkerchief.
“Mr. Swift, what are you doing?” Evie asked with a quizzical smile.
“Improvising something.” He spooned some crushed ice into the center of the handkerchief, gathered the fabric tightly around it, and tied it off with fishing line. After replacing the knife in his pocket, he reached for the baby without one trace of self-consciusness.
Wide-eyed, Evie surrendered the infant. The four women watched in astonishment as Swift took Isabelle against his shoulder with practiced ease. He gave the baby the ice-filled handkerchief, which she proceeded to gnaw madly even as she continued to cry.
Seeming oblivious to the fascinated stares of everyone in the room, Swift wandered to the window and murmured softly to the baby. It appeared he was telling her a story of some kind. After a minute or two the child quieted.
When Swift returned to the table Isabelle was half-drowsing and sighing, her mouth clamped firmly on the makeshift ice pouch.
“Oh, Mr. Swift,” Annabelle said gratefully, taking the baby back in her arms, “how clever of you! Thank you.”
“What were you saying to her?” Lillian demanded.
He glanced at her and replied blandly, “I thought I would distract her long enough for the ice to numb her gums. So I gave her a detailed explanation of the Buttonwood agreement of 1792.”
Daisy spoke to him for the first time. “What was that?”
Swift glanced at her then, his face smooth and polite, and for a second Daisy half-believed that she had dreamed the events of that morning. But her skin and nerves still retained the sensation of him, the hard imprint of his body.
“The Buttonwood agreement led to the formation of the New York Stock and Exchange Board,” Swift said. “I thought I was quite informative, but it seemed Miss Isabelle lost interest when I started on the fee-structuring compromise.”
“I see,” Daisy said. “You bored the poor baby to sleep.”
“You should hear my account of the imbalance of market forces leading to the crash of ’37,” Swift said. “I’ve been told it’s better than laudanum.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“I would have so loved to learn about the Vikings.”
Lillian snorted. “Since when have you been interested in warlike pagans with silly-looking headgear?”
Daisy looked up from her book again. “Are we talking about Grandmother again?”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“If there is any man in England who is more experienced than Lord St. Vincent at sneaking around for a tryst, I’d like to know who.”
― Lisa Kleypas, It Happened One Autumn

“Indignation caused Mercedes to puff out her cheeks temporarily, causing her narrow face to resemble a set of inflated fireplace bellows. “You don’t like Mr. Swift any more than I do,” she retorted.
“No,” Lillian said frankly. “But much as I hate to admit it, that puts us in a minority. Swift is liked by everyone in the northern hemisphere, including Westcliff and his friends, my friends, the servants, the neighbors—”
“You are exaggerating—”
“—children, animals and the higher order of plants,” Lillian finished sardonically. “If root vegetables could talk, I’ve no doubt they would say they like him, too.”
Daisy, who was sitting by the window with a book, looked up with a sudden grin. “His charm doesn’t extend to poultry,” she said.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“Break the cinnamon in half.'

The cinnamon stick was light, curled around itself like a brittle roll of papyrus. Not a stick at all, Lillian remembered as she look closer, but bark, the meeting place between inside and out. It crackled as she broke it, releasing a spiciness, part heat, part sweet, that pricked her eyes and nose, and made her tongue tingle without even tasting it.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients

“Add orange peel and cinnamon to milk. Grate the chocolate.'

The hard, round cake of chocolate was wrapped in yellow plastic with red stripes, shiny and dark when she opened it. The chocolate made a rough sound as it brushed across the fine section of the grater, falling in soft clouds onto the counter, releasing a scent of dusty back rooms filled with bittersweet chocolate and old love letters, the bottom drawers of antique desks and the last leaves of autumn, almonds and cinnamon and sugar.
Into the milk it went.

'Add anise.'

Such a small amount of ground spice in the little bag Abuelita had given her. It lay there quietly, unremarkable, the color of wet beach sand. She undid the tie around the top of the bag and swirls of warm gold and licorice danced up to her nose, bringing with them miles of faraway deserts and a dark, starless sky, a longing she could feel in the back of her eyes, her fingertips.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients

“Now, when I'm deciding which ingredients to put together, I like to think about the central element in the dish. What flavors would it want? So I want you to think about crabs. Close your eyes. What comes to mind?"
Claire obediently lowered her eyelids, feeling her lashes brush against her skin. She thought of the fine hairs on the sides of a crab's body, the way they moved in the water. She thought of the sharp edges of claws moving their way across the wavy sand bed of the sea, of water so pervasive it was air as well as liquid.
"Salt," she said aloud, surprising herself.
"Good, now keep going," Lillian prompted. "What might we do to contrast or bring out the flavor?"
"Garlic," added Carl, "maybe some red pepper flakes."
"And butter," said Chloe, "lots of butter.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients

“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

“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

“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

“He stood looking at her as if it took all of his effort to keep his eyes directed at her face, to keep seeing her, to endure the sight. “What do you want?” he asked.”
― Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

“What happened?” Lillian asked as Daisy walked into the Marsden parlor. She was reclining on the settee with a periodical. “You look as if you’ve been run over by a carriage.”
“I had an encounter with an ill-mannered pig, actually.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“Lillian grimaced. “Bloody hell,” she muttered. “Damn and blast. Son of a—”
“When the baby is born,” Daisy said with a faint smile, “you’ll really have to stop using such foul language.”
“Then I will indulge myself to the fullest until he gets here.”
“Are you certain it’s a he?”
“It had better be, since Westcliff needs an heir and I’m never going through this again.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“You have always embodied the worst of my father,” Lillian said. “The coldness, the ambition, the self-centeredness. Except you’re worse because you’re able to disguise it far more adeptly than he does. You’re what my father would have been if he’d been blessed with good looks and a little sophistication. I think that in winning you Daisy must somehow feel she has finally succeeded with Father.” Her brows came together as she continued. “My sister has always compelled to love unlovable creatures…the strays, the misfits. Once she loves someone, no matter how many times they betray or disappoint her, she will take them back with open arms. But you won’t appreciate that any more than Father does. You’ll take what you want, and give her very little in return. And when you inevitably hurt her, I will be the first in a line of people waiting to slaughter you. By the time I finish with you, there won’t be enough left for the others to pick over.”
“So much for impartiality,” Matthew said. He respected her brutal honesty even though he was smarting from it. “May I respond with the same frankness you’ve just shown me?”
“I hope you will.”
“My lady, you don’t know me well enough to assess how much like your father I may or may not be. It’s no crime to be ambitious, particularly when you’ve started with nothing. And I’m not cold, I’m from Boston. Which means I’m not prone to displaying my emotions for all and sundry to see. As far as being self-centered, you have no way of knowing how much I’ve done, if anything, for other people. But I’ll be damned if I recite a list of my past good deeds in hopes of winning your approval.” He leveled a cool stare at her. “Regardless of your opinions, the marriage is going to happen, because both Daisy and I want it. So I have no reason to lie to you. I could say I don’t give a damn about Daisy, and I would still get what I want. But the fact is, I’m in love with her. I have been for a long time.”
“You’ve been secretly in love with my sister for years?” Lillian asked with blistering skepticism. “How convenient.”
“I didn’t define it as ‘in love.’ All I knew was that I had a persistent, all-consuming…preference for her.”
“Preference?” Lillian looked momentarily outraged, and then she surprised him by laughing. “My God, you really are from Boston.” “Believe it or not,” Matthew muttered, “I wouldn’t have chosen to feel this way about Daisy. It would have been far more convenient to find someone else. The devil knows I should be given some credit for being willing to take on the Bowmans as in-laws.” “Touché.” Lillian continued to smile, leaning her chin on her hand as she stared at him.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“What could have possessed her to sleep with Matthew Swift?”
“I doubt there was much sleeping involved,” Annabelle replied, her eyes twinkling.
Lillian gave her a slitted glare. “If you have the bad taste to be amused by this, Annabelle—”
“Daisy was never interested in Lord Llandrindon,” Evie volunteered hastily, trying to prevent a quarrel. “She was only using him to provoke Mr. Swift.”
“How do you know?” the other two asked at the same time.
“Well, I-I…” Evie made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Last week I m-more or less inadvertently suggested that she try to make him jealous. And it worked.”
Lillian’s throat worked violently before she could manage to speak. “Of all the asinine, sheep-headed, moronic—”
“Why, Evie?” Annabelle asked in a considerably kinder tone.
“Daisy and I overheard Mr. Swift t-talking to Lord Llandrindon. He was trying to convince Llandrindon to court her, and it became obvious that Mr. Swift wanted her for himself.”
“I’ll bet he planned it,” Lillian snapped. “He must have known somehow that you would overhear. It was a devious and sinister plot, and you fell for it!”
“I don’t think so,” Evie replied. Staring at Lillian’s crimson face, she asked apprehensively, “Are you going to shout at me?”
Lillian shook her head and dropped her face in her hands. “I’d shriek like a banshee,” she said through the screen of her fingers, “if I thought it would do any good. But since I’m fairly certain Daisy has been intimate with that reptile, there is probably nothing anyone can do to save her now.”
“She may not want to be saved,” Evie pointed out.
“That’s because she’s gone stark raving mad,” came Lillian’s muffled growl.
Annabelle nodded. “Obviously. Daisy has slept with a handsome, young, wealthy, intelligent man who is apparently in love with her. What in God’s name can she be thinking?” She smiled compassionately as she heard Lillian’s profane reply, and settled a gentle hand between her friend’s shoulders. “Dearest,” she murmured, “as you know, there was a time when it didn’t matter to me whether I married a man I loved or not…it seemed enough just to get my family out of the desperate situation we were in. But when I thought about what it would be like to share a bed with my husband…to spend the rest of my life with him…I knew Simon was the only choice.” She paused, and sudden tears glittered her eyes. Beautiful, self-possessed Annabelle, who hardly ever cried. “When I’m ill,” she continued in a husky voice, “when I’m afraid, when I need something, I know he will move heaven and earth to make everything all right. I trust him with every fiber of my being. And when I see the child we created, the two of us mingled forever in her…my God, how grateful I am that I married Simon. We’ve all been able to choose our own husbands, Lillian. You have to allow Daisy the same freedom.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“What aren’t coming regularly?” Daisy asked with forced cheer, coming into the room. “And why are you watching the—” She blanched as she suddenly understood. “My God. Are you having birthing pains, Lillian?”
Her sister shook her head, looking perplexed. “Not full-on pains. Just a sort of tightening of my stomach. It started after lunchtime, and then I had one an hour later, and then a half-hour later, and this one came after twenty minutes.”
“Does Westcliff know?” Daisy asked breathlessly. “Should I go tell him?”
“No,” all three of the other women said at once.
“There’s no need to worry him yet,” Lillian added in a sheepish tone. “Let Westcliff enjoy the afternoon with his friends. As soon as he finds out, he’ll be up here pacing and giving commands, and no one will have any peace. Especially me.”
“What about Mother? Shall I fetch her?” Daisy had to ask, even though she was certain of the answer.
Mercedes was not a comforting sort of person, and despite the fact that she had given birth to five children, she was squeamish at the mention of any kind of bodily function.
“I’m in enough pain already,” Lillian said dryly.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“Blast,” Daisy complained. “Blast, blast…Lillian, I had just gotten to the best part!”
“As we speak there are at least a half-dozen eligible men who are lawn-bowling outside,” her sister said crisply. “And playing games with them is far more productive than reading by yourself.”
“I don’t know anything about bowls.”
“Good. Ask them to teach you. If there’s one thing every man loves to do, it’s telling a woman how to do something.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Scandal in Spring

“There was avocado, wrinkled and grumpy on the outside, green spring within, creamy as ice cream when smashed into guacamole. There were the smoky flavors of chipotle peppers and the sharp-sweet crunch of cilantro, which Lillian loved so much Abuelita would always give her a sprig to eat as she walked home.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients

“Lillian put out ingredients- sticks of butter, mounds of chopped onion and minced ginger and garlic, a bottle of white wine, pepper, lemons.
"We'll melt the butter first," she explained, "and then cook the onions until they become translucent." The class could hear the small snaps as the onions met the hot surface. "Make sure the butter doesn't brown, though," Lillian cautioned, "or it will taste burned."
When the pieces of onion began to disappear into the butter, Lillian quickly added the minced ginger, a new smell, part kiss, part playful slap. Garlic came next, a soft, warm cushion under the ginger, followed by salt and pepper.
"You can add some red pepper flakes, if you like," Lillian said, "and more or less garlic or ginger or other ingredients, depending on the mood you're in or the one you wanted to create. Now," she continued, "we'll coat the crab and roast it in the oven.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients

“I thought for our last session we should celebrate spring," Lillian said, coming out of the kitchen with a large blue bowl in her hands. "The first green things coming up through soft earth. I've always thought the year begins in the spring rather than January, anyway. I like the idea of taking the first asparagus of the year, picked right that day, and putting it in a warm, creamy risotto. It celebrates both seasons and takes you from one to the next in just a few bites."
They passed the bowl around the table, using the large silver spoon to serve generous helpings. The salad bowl came next, fresh Bibb lettuce and purple onions and orange slices, touched with oil and lemon and orange juice. Then a bread basket, heaped high with slices of fragrant, warm bread.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The School of Essential Ingredients

“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

“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