I am starting to think that maybe memories are like this dessert. I eat it, and it becomes a part of me, whether I remember it later or not.
I've been wondering," Isabelle commented reflectively over dessert, "if it is foolish to make new memories when you know you are going to lose them.
She became a frame for the picture that was her son and daughter.
What did she do that made her happy? The question implied action, a conscious purpose. She did many things in a day, and many things made her happy, but that, Claire could tell, wasn’t the issue. Nor the only one, Claire realized. Because in order ...
Stories of her children when they were small, their round little bodies barely containing their personalities, which bloomed and glittered and melted into her.
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.
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 variatio...
We’re all just ingredients. What matters is the grace with which you cook the meal.
You could never be certain what you would find in a book that had spent time with someone else.
She felt about her zester the way some women do about a pair of spiky red shoes--a frivolous splurge, good only for parties, but oh so lovely.
