65 Quotes by Amy E. Reichert

She planned to make a roast beef, a pile of mashed potatoes, corn- then mounted it into a bowl and drown it in gravy. Some people ate ice cream or pie when depressed; she went for the warm comfort food she learned to make in her grandma’s kitchen.

Lou had brought the grill from ice-cold to scorching-hot faster than a firestorm; the brats were preboiled in beer and onions and burst with the perfect combination of juicy and smoky, complete with a crunchy outside topped with just a smear of Dijon. Paired with ice-cold Spotted Cows, his new favorite Wisconsin beer, Al got it. He got why people came hours early. It wasn’t about good seats or convenient parking. It was a friendly little party with forty thousand of your closest friends.

As he walked past the newsstand, he couldn’t help sniffing the air, searching for hints of bacon, coconut, and vanilla. Combined with John’s declaration that he needed to get laid, he couldn’t get that smell off his mind, or her adorable freckles, or the broken expression on her face as she blew past him on the sidewalk. Such a marvelous creature deserved someone who understood her talents- someone like him, perhaps.

What all of these people didn’t understand is she couldn’t fast-forward her grief. It wasn’t another item on her checklist she could accomplish then cross out. Grief demanded to be felt on its own time.

Happiness is always worth remembering, even when it was temporary.

We are born, we live, if we are lucky we love, then we die. That is the way, not something to mourn. Only mourn those who haven’t lived, who haven’t found love. They deserve your sadness, not us.

Lou’s arteries congealed as she recalled the pounds of butter that went into the meal and the two pies cooling in the kitchen. But you couldn’t skimp on butter on a holiday, and any substitute would feel wrong to a girl born and raised in the Dairy State. At least she’d resisted putting cheese in half the dishes.

I would have agreed to any sum if a night with you were on the table.” His voice was husky in her ear, his Irish dancing over the words and down her spine. He wasn’t touching her, but she could feel every inch of him; the air between them could singe.

Do not hide who you are. These are a nurturer’s hands. Cooking is hard and sometimes painful work, but you do it to share your gift with us. Your cooking improves our lives. Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are.