Shortbread Quotes

“I've made countless variations on this recipe. Chai-infused shortbread diamonds. Rosewater shortbread squares. Cocoa shortbread sandwiches spliced with Nutella. But tonight, in honor of Grandma Damson, I make hers, from memory.
In a sense, I fail. No ghosts materialize in the kitchen, not Grandma Damson, not Nonna, not anyone.
But out of the mess I make a dozen ideal shortbread wedges, perfect in shape, size and flavor. Warm and delicate. With a glass of cold milk, they are delicious. When shortbread melts on your tongue, you feel the roundness of the butter and the kiss of the sugar and then they vanish. Then you eat another, to feel it again, to get at that moment of vanishing. I eat myself sick on them.”
― Jael McHenry, The Kitchen Daughter

“Granny always made Polly think of biscuits. She had a dry, shortbread sort of way to her, with a hidden taste that came out afterwards. Her kitchen had a biscuit smell to it, a nutty, butter smell like no other kitchen. (p. 9)”
― Diana Wynne Jones, Fire and Hemlock

“Cady had drawn a goblet filled with layers of peaches and brown sugar and rum and shortbread crumbs, topped with maple whipped cream.
"I love the Scottish shortbread in here. Let's add a cookie to the top." Elliott drew that onto the picture.
"I'll make some candied violets for a garnish. It will look spectacular. And since Elliott has now been trained, he can be my sous-chef." Cady smirked.
Elliott chuckled and patted Cady on the head. "Nice try. I approve of the candied violets, especially since Jenny will adore that idea." He added some more notations onto the menu. "And let's cut the richness of this meal with a little palate cleanser between the entrée and dessert. How about tipsy oranges?"
"Oh. That sounds good. How do you make that?" She leaned closer to him, needing to feel his heat. He pressed his arm against hers, instinctively reacting to her needs. How had this happened so fast? This connection between them?
"Easiest thing in the world. Section the orange, drizzle Drambuie on top, sprinkle some brown sugar on there and broil quickly to get the sugar bubbling. Add some fresh mint. A quick, refreshing stop before Cady's decadent dessert.”
― Penny Watson, A Taste of Heaven

“The waiter returned with a pre-appetizer amuse-bouche, a soup spoon filled with diced radishes, shortbread crumbs, and a black pepper gastrique. After the waiter left, Michael Saltz said, "They're trying. Hard."
The radishes had been pickled, articulating their peppery bite and giving them a sharpened edge. The shortbread grounded the bite with a bready, buttery mouthful and the black pepper-vinegar sauce finished it with an elegant and seductive wisp of sweet, salty, and spicy.”
― Jessica Tom, Food Whore

“I'd left the soon-to-be-blue doors open, and Clementine had let herself in. As we entered the kitchen, I could see her putting the finishing touches on two bowls of something chocolaty.
"What is this?" I asked, taking a closer look.
Clementine finished her plating and stepped back. "Nutella mousse with hazelnut liqueur, served with chocolate-dipped hazelnut shortbread."
She was good; I had to give her that. Nico and I shared a deep, genetic affinity for the chocolate-hazelnut spread. Without hesitation, I picked up the spoon and dug in.
An intense, perfectly complex Nutella taste met my tongue. My eyes slid shut. "That is so good."
"Try it with the shortbread," Clementine instructed.
I dipped the chocolaty-end of the shortbread into the mousse. The crunch of the cookie set off the rich mousse like a dream. A chocolaty, hazelnutty, Nutella-y dream.
Dragging my attention away from dessert, I looked to Nico to see his reaction.
He stood staring at me, spoon in hand, mousse untouched.
I frowned at him. "What on earth are you waiting for? Eat!"
Nico scowled but dug his spoon into the mousse. He took a bite; his face froze.
"Seriously," I said, working two more spoonfuls, "I might lick the bowl."
Nico shrugged. "It's pretty good."
Clementine squared her shoulders. "Pretty good?"
"You want the job?"
"Yes, I do," she answered.
"I'll think about it," he told her, his expression guarded.
"Thank you," Clementine replied, unfazed.
I scooped another bite of mousse. "This shortbread? It's perfect!"
"It's the French butter. I get it from your grandmother's supplier--he gives us, I mean, me, a good deal. I bake croissants for him. He imports French butter but can't bake. Isn't that sad?"
I nodded, nibbling at the shortbread. "The butter certainly imports a richness of flavor that's quite special.”
― Hillary Manton Lodge, A Table by the Window