Mixture Quotes

“Mixing old wine with new wine is stupidity, but mixing old wisdom with new wisdom is maturity.”
― Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words

“She spoke fast, and seemed to be a combination of stressed out and on the verge of cracking up, which was a mixture I wasn't sure I'd ever seen before.”
― Morgan Matson, Since You've Been Gone

“The truth is usually somewhere in the gray turbulent eddies set in motion by the mixture of black and white.”
― Ken Poirot

“We humans are a strange mixture of dirt and divinity.”
― Laurence Galian, 666: Connection with Crowley

“The face of poverty is a mixture of sincerity and sadness!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“There were people in the world who were good and people who were evil, but most of them were some mixture of both and did what they did simply because they were mortal. And her Lord? ... He knew it all and had known it all and always would know it all.”
― Chris Bohjalian, Hour of the Witch

“If I were a religious person, I would have been very freaking one; mixture of logic and lie.”
― M.F. Moonzajer

“I fired up the brick oven, reminding myself that garlic has no place in a confection and butter becomes a layer of oil floating atop the cheese. I felt confident and excited; this time I would get it right.
I helped myself to the triple-cream cheese (still convinced it it would make a delicious base) and then added a dollop of honey to sweeten it and heavy cream to thin it enough for my whisk. Since my last endeavor, I'd noticed that wine was primarily used in sauces and stews, and so, in a moment of blind inspiration, I added, instead, a splash of almond liqueur, which I hoped would add subtle flavor without changing the creamy color of the cheese. Instead of the roach-like raisins, I threw in a handful of chopped almonds that I imagined would provide a satisfying crunch and harmonize with the liqueur.
I beat it all to a smooth batter and poured it into a square pan, intending to cut rectangular slices after it cooled. I slid the pan, hopefully, into the oven. Once again, I watched the edges bubble and noticed, with satisfaction, that instead of an overpowering smell of garlic there was a warm seductive hint of almond in the air. The bubbles turned to a froth that danced over the entire surface, and I assumed this was a sign of cohesion. My creation would come out of the oven like firm custard with undertones of almond and an unexpected crunch. The rectangular servings would make an unusual presentation- neither cheese nor pudding nor custard, but something completely new and unique.
The bubbling froth subsided to a gently bumpy surface, and to my horror those damnable pockmarks began to appear with oil percolating in the tiny craters. The nuts completed the disruption of the creamy texture and gave the whole thing a crude curdled look.
If only this cross-breed concoction would cohere, it might yet be cut up into squares and served on a plate with some appealing garnish, perhaps strawberries and mint leaves for color. I took the pan out and stared at it as it cooled, willing it to stand up, pull itself together, be firm. When the pan was cool enough to touch, I dipped my spoon into the mixture and it came out dripping and coated in something with the consistency of buttermilk. It didn't taste bad at all, in fact I licked the spoon clean, enjoying the balance of sweetness and almond, but it wasn't anything I could present to the chef. It was like a sweet, cheesy soup into which someone had accidentally dropped nuts. Why was the cheese breaking down? Why wasn't it holding together like cake or custard?”
― Elle Newmark, The Book of Unholy Mischief

“First, I placed the clean snapper on a bed of aluminum foil sprinkled with sea salt and olive oil. I then stuffed the tomatoes, garlic, onions, and coriander into the belly of the fish before sewing it shut. The first time I'd tasted this, the snapper was skewered and turned over open flames. To accompany it, I'd drunk the sweet juice from young coconuts cut with machetes, taken off the very trees above us. Now that I was back to apartment living, I had to modify the recipe and grill the fish in a closed packet. The texture of the skin wouldn't be as crisp, but the flesh would be even more tender. If I had thought Celia preferred the crisp texture, I would have fried it with the stuffing mixture served on the side.
The fish was ready to be baked. I prepared sinanag, Filipino garlic fried rice, to accompany the fish: jasmine rice, smashed garlic cloves, sea salt, and a sprinkle of vegetable oil.”
― Roselle Lim, Natalie Tan's Book of Luck & Fortune

“The illnesses in high altitude professional astronomy are generally a mixture of long term altitude sickness and workplace toxicity.”
― Steven Magee, Toxic Altitude

“No chocolate or ginger cake, Victoria sponge or coffee and walnut cake tastes quite as good as that smudge of raw cake mixture stolen from the bowl. The beaten butter and sugar, eggs and flour have a special temptation all of their own. Cool and whipped till cloud-like, it has a hint of soft-serve vanilla ice cream about it. You can't eat much, of course, not even a full spoonful, only the merest fingertip's worth, a dab, a swoosh. But that is the point. Perhaps it is what makes raw cake mixture irresistible, the fact that it must be taken in precious amounts. Anyone who has dipped into excess knows how your treat soon cloys. We indulge at our peril.
I say 'licking the bowl,' but our delight need not be confined to that. Wiping the extra uncooked cake mixture from the spoon or beater with your index finger is just as good. Seasoned with the false premise of waste not, want not, the raw mixture also carries with it the frisson of the illegal. In cookery classes at school in the late 1960s we were allowed to lick the black-treacle spoon but not the one we used for golden syrup, and certainly not one smeared with the vanilla-scented delights of raw cake mixture, so we (by which I mean me and all the girls in the class) developed a way of sneaking some with the deftness of a bunch of serial shoplifters.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts