Memories Of Mother Quotes

“My mother taught me to knit when I was seven. I forgot about knitting until one day I saw Marion at the counter with hers and confessed that I knew how. Confessed is the right word. In those days, in the early 1980s, knitting was not a hobby a preteen would readily admit to. But Marion, every enthusiastic, pounced upon me and insisted that I show her something I'd made. I did -- a misshapen scarf -- which she priased exravagantly. she lent me a raspberry-colored wool for another project, a hat for myself. Since then I've been knitting pretty continuously. It's addictive and it's soothing, and fora a few minutes anyway, it makes me feel closer to my mother.”
― Anita Shreve, Light on Snow

“My coat of many colors that my mama made for me,
Made only from rags, but I wore it so proudly.
Now I know we had no money, but I was rich as I could be.
In my coat of many colors my mama made for me.
Made just for me.”
― Dolly Parton, Dolly Parton, Songteller: My Life in Lyrics

“She walked over to the tomato bushes, the centerpiece of the spectacular garden plot. In her mind's eye she could see her mother in a house dress that somehow looked pretty on her, a green-sprigged apron, bleached Keds with no socks, a straw hat to keep the sun from her eyes. Mamma never hurried in the garden, and she used all her senses while tending it. She would hold a tomato in the palm of her hand, determining its ripeness by its softness and heft. Or she would inhale the fragrance of pepperoncini or bell peppers, test a pinch of flat leaf parsley or mint between her teeth. Everything had to be at its peak before Mamma brought it to the kitchen.”
― Susan Wiggs, Summer by the Sea

“Nellie didn't make these lavender muffins often, as they brought forth memories of her mother in better days, which was difficult. Yet, it remained one of her favorite recipes. Lemon the flavor of sunshine, and lavender, a most powerful herb. It symbolized feminine beauty and grace, and Nellie could think of nothing better with which to celebrate Martha's recent delivery.”
― Karma Brown, Recipe for a Perfect Wife

“She set the bouquet of dahlias- a most harmonious flower, the vivid petals springing from its center like a work of art- at the base of the headstone, the pink and white blooms cheery against the day's overcast dreariness. Dahlias were long bloomers (Nellie had even seen them survive an early frost) and signified an unbreakable commitment between two people. While Nellie found the flower too gay for such a profound meaning, Elsie had insisted that was why dahlias were so enchanting. "Just as powerful as they are pretty. Like you, my sweet girl.”
― Karma Brown, Recipe for a Perfect Wife

“Every dish I cooked exhumed a memory. Every scent and taste brought me back for a moment to an unravaged home. Knife-cut noodles in chicken broth took me back to lunch at Myeondong Gyoja after an afternoon of shopping, the line so long it filled a flight of stairs, extended out the door, and wrapped around the building. The kalguksu so dense from the rich beef stock and starchy noodles it was nearly gelatinous. My mother ordering more and more refills of their famously garlic-heavy kimchi. My aunt scolding her for blowing her nose in public.
Crispy Korean fried chicken conjured bachelor nights with Eunmi. Licking oil from our fingers as we chewed on the crispy skin, cleansing our palates with draft beer and white radish cubes as she helped me with my Korean homework. Black-bean noodles summoned Halmoni slurping jjajangmyeon takeout, huddled around a low table in the living room with the rest of my Korean family.
I drained an entire bottle of oil into my Dutch oven and deep-fried pork cutlets dredged in flour, egg, and panko for tonkatsu, a Japanese dish my mother used to pack in my lunch boxes. I spent hours squeezing the water from boiled bean sprouts and tofu and spooning filling into soft, thin dumpling skins, pinching the tops closed, each one slightly closer to one of Maangchi's perfectly uniform mandu.”
― Michelle Zauner, Crying in H Mart

“You have only hours until you go from palace servant to the future queen of Aurelais. Many will not take the news well, particularly not the blue-blooded young ladies who will resent the prince for rebuffing them for you."
Cinderella thought of her stepsisters, who'd reveled for years in tormenting her. "I can handle it."
When she did not elaborate, Genevieve appraised her. "When Charles declares that you are to be the princess of Aurelais, all attention will be on you. This is the first impression everyone will have of you.
"You have natural grace, which most princesses take decades to learn, but it won't be enough. Nothing would ever be enough, even if you had been born royal." The duchess lifted Cinderella's chin so their eyes were level. "In my time, we stood by the three P's. I thought it was a bunch of hogwash, but I'll impart it to you anyway. It was essential that a princess be poised, pleasant, and-"
"Pretty?" Cinderella guessed.
"Presentable," corrected the duchess. "That's what all the wigs and powder and rouge were for. Nowadays, women are more after the natural look. Which, I suppose, isn't a problem for you." She hummed approvingly. "Now, what color gown should you like to wear tonight?"
"Something blue," replied Cinderella thoughtfully. "It was my mother's favorite color, and I wish with all my heart she could have met Charles and seen us together."
"That's a beautiful thought, Cindergirl.”
― Elizabeth Lim, So This is Love

“She was the world's best cook. Every night, she used to sing "Funiculi" while she fixed supper- puttanesca sauce, homemade bread, pasta she made every Wednesday. Rosa had loved nothing better than working side by side with her in the bright scrubbed kitchen in the house on Prospect Street, turning out fresh pasta, baking a calzone on a winter afternoon, adding a pinch of basil or fennel to the sauce. Most of all, Rosa could picture, like an inedible snapshot in her mind, Mamma standing at the sink and looking out the window, a soft, slightly mysterious smile on her face. Herr "Mona Lisa smile," Pop used to call it. Rosa didn't know about that. She had seen a postcard of the Mona Lisa and thought Mamma was way prettier.”
― Susan Wiggs, Summer by the Sea

“I will never grow tired of the scent of lavender in my kitchen," Elsie had said, pressing her herb-infused fingers to her face. "It smells of contentment, doesn't it?" Contentment was a hard thing to come by for Elsie, so any mention of it had made hope blossom inside Nellie's chest. Elsie began to sing, and Nellie joined in- their voices blending as pleasantly in the small kitchen as the lemon rind and lavender buds within the muffin mixture.
Their frequent cooking sessions in those days weren't only an education in home economics; they were also a housewifery training program passed from mother to daughter. Elsie taught Nellie how to make her own bread yeast, and why one should add a dash of oatmeal to soups (to thicken it), and how vinegar keeps boiling cauliflower pristinely white. And underpinning those lessons was Elsie's wish for Nellie to marry a good man, unlike the one she herself committed to. They lived modestly, without luxuries, but Elsie's love for Nellie was as bountiful as her gardens. "You have been my greatest joy," Elsie would murmur to Nellie when she tucked her into bed, kissing her on the forehead, on her cheeks, her eyelids, smelling of roses and dusty baking flour. "My greatest joy.”
― Karma Brown, Recipe for a Perfect Wife

“All of a sudden I am seven years of age again. Mam is lifting quince pips with a tin skimmer. She chops the flesh and gives me the cores that I may suck at the golden clinging fruit, which is melting soft, sweet, perfumed, and slips down my throat like cream.
"My mother always left the quinces in their liquor overnight," I say tentatively. "With the pips and cores. She said it set firmer and faster like that.”
― Annabel Abbs, Miss Eliza's English Kitchen

“Zoey had later found a few of her mother's things mistakingly tangled in her own---a pair of lavender-colored leather gloves, a twisted and knotted gold bracelet, and a tube of saucy red lipstick, the color of which was called Bye Bye Birdie.”
― Sarah Addison Allen, Other Birds: A Novel

“Mrs. Fitch's Compassionate Tea---contains plant essences only. Listed below, the ingredients: Matricaria recutita, rosehips, passion flower, fennel, and more. Especially beneficial for ladies' ailments. Add harp song when in season.”
― Jeanette Lynes, The Apothecary's Garden

“In the scrubbed and gleaming kitchen, here mother's rolled-out pasta dough used to cover the entire top of the chrome and Formica table. Rosa could still picture the long sleek muscles in her mother's arms as she wielded the red-handled rolling pin, drawing it in smooth, rhythmic strokes over the butter-yellow dough.
The reek of the burnt-out motor was a corruption here, in Mamma's world. The smell of her baking ciambellone used to be so powerful it drew the neighbors in, and Rosa could remember the women in their aprons and scuffs, sitting on the back stoop, sharing coffee and Mamma's citrusy ciambellone, fresh from the oven.”
― Susan Wiggs, Summer by the Sea

“She loved rhubarb pie. She loved the morning sun. She loved drying the sheets on the clothesline, even in the dead of winter. She loved a good pot of jasmine tea. She loved orange rinds and gossip and peacock feathers. She loved plums."
"Plums. Greengage plums?"
"Yes, greengage plums.”
― Melanie Gideon, Valley of the Moon

“Possessions age and lose value over time; memories last forever.”
― Frank Sonnenberg, Listen to Your Conscience: That's Why You Have One

“I needed to go far, far away. I needed to see my mother. See her face, hear her voice. The image of her flooded my mind: her dark skin, her sweet voice, but her face was soon replaced by Ms. Han's Asian features, her harsh voice barking orders.”
― Jaya Robinson, The Butterfly Effect

“I took a deep breath and recalled every smell of my childhood: the cinnamon that dominated not only winter baking, but many of the tomato-based Italian dishes Mom loved; vanilla, always used as an undertone to her egg-based savories; and rosemary. When did she not use rosemary?”
― Katherine Reay, Lizzy and Jane

“Great writers and my mom never used food as an object. Instead it was a medium, a catalyst to mend hearts, to break down barriers, to build relationships. Mom's cooking fed body and soul. She used to quip, "If the food is good, there's no need to talk about the weather." That was my mantra for years---food as meal and conversation, a total experience.
I leaned my forehead against the glass and thought again about Emma and the arrowroot. Mom had highlighted it in my sophomore English class. "Jane Fairfax knew it was given with a selfish heart. Emma didn't care about Jane, she just wanted to appear benevolent."
"That girl was stupid. She was poor and should've accepted the gift." The football team had hooted for their spokesman.
"That girl's name was Jane Fairfax, and motivation always matters." Mom's glare seared them.
I tried to remember the rest of the lesson, but couldn't. I think she assigned a paper, and the football team stopped chuckling.
Another memory flashed before my eyes. It was from that same spring; Mom was baking a cake to take to a neighbor who'd had a knee replacement.
"We don't have enough chocolate." I shut the cabinet door.
"We're making an orange cake, not chocolate."
"Chocolate is so much better."
"Then we're lucky it's not for you. Mrs. Conner is sad and she hurts and it's spring. The orange cake will not only show we care, it'll bring sunshine and spring to her dinner tonight. She needs that."
"It's just a cake."
"It's never just a cake, Lizzy."
I remembered the end of that lesson: I rolled my eyes----Mom loathed that----and received dish duty. But it turned out okay; the batter was excellent.
I shoved the movie reel of scenes from my head. They didn't fit in my world. Food was the object. Arrowroot was arrowroot. Cake was cake. And if it was made with artisan dark chocolate and vanilla harvested by unicorns, all the better. People would crave it, order it, and pay for it. Food wasn't a metaphor---it was the commodity---and to couch it in other terms was fatuous. The one who prepared it best won.”
― Katherine Reay, Lizzy and Jane

“Luckily, we always had chicken legs in the fridge and plenty of soy sauce and brown sugar. But what else was in it? The salty sweetness was the dominant flavor, but it was more well-rounded than that. There was a depth and brightness.
Calamansi! My eyes alit on the bottle of citrus juice we kept on hand when we couldn't find the fresh fruit. That must've been what she used. And what else...
I closed my eyes, picturing myself at this kitchen table, the fragrant chicken piled on top of a steaming bowl of white rice, a tiny dribble of dark sauce squiggled across.
I smiled and opened my eyes. Garlic. Of course.”
― Mia P. Manansala, Homicide and Halo-Halo

“Mom's secret recipe used Meyer lemons for a sweeter, richer flavor. That was one of her tricks. That and European butter. With its higher fat content than American butter, it made a flakier crust.
"Lolly, what are the three secret ingredients that make this the best lemon meringue pie in the world?" She'd drilled me that last night before she died, demanding I recite every ingredient, every step, until she was satisfied I had it down pat.
"The three ingredients are Meyer lemons, European butter, and a leaf of lemon balm boiled into the syrup every time," I'd dutifully recited in her hospital room, feeling the weight of grief, of responsibility rest heavier on my shoulders with every word.
Lemon balm was an unorthodox choice for pie, but Mom had loved cooking with edible flowers and herbs. She'd taught me everything I knew about them. I reached for the little lemon balm potted plant growing on the windowsill over the sink and carefully pinched off a leaf.
"In the language of flowers, lemon balm means sympathy or good cheer," she'd explained once. "So every bite of this pie can help brighten someone's day."
I crushed the leaf of lemon balm between my fingers and inhaled the scent, hoping it would work on me. No such luck. I dropped the leaf into the pot and stirred. Every time I made these pies I felt her presence. She had loved lemons---their sharp, fresh scent and cheerful hue. She would slice a lemon in half and sniff deeply, happily.
"See, Lolly," she'd say. "Lemons brighten every day. They are a touch of kitchen magic, and we all need a little magic in our lives.”
― Rachel Linden, The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie

“In the section with edible flowers I stopped short, a bright yellow-and-purple pansy in my hands, hearing my mother's voice from long ago.
Pansies are the showgirls of the flower world, but they taste a little grassy, she'd confided to me once as we pulled the weeds in her herb and flower garden. I put a dozen pansies in my cart and moved on to carnations. Carnations are the candy of the flower world, but only the petals. The white base is bitter, she'd instructed, handing me one to try. In my young mind carnations had been in the same category as jelly beans and gumdrops. Treats to enjoy.
"Impatiens." I browsed the aisles of Swansons, reading signs aloud. "Marigolds."
Marigolds taste a little like citrus, and you can substitute them for saffron. My mother's face swam before my eyes, imparting her kitchen wisdom to little Lolly. It's a poor woman's saffron. Also insects hate them; they're a natural bug deterrent.
I placed a dozen yellow-and-orange marigolds into my cart along with a couple different varieties of lavender and some particularly gorgeous begonias I couldn't resist. I had a sudden flash of memory: my mother's hand in her floral gardening glove plucking a tuberous begonia blossom and popping it in her mouth before offering me one. I was four or five years old. It tasted crunchy and sour, a little like a lemon Sour Patch Kid. I liked the flavor and sneaked a begonia flower every time I was in the garden for the rest of the summer.”
― Rachel Linden, The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie

“She'd wanted to be a chef that little girls could look up to--- a role model. Empowering other women was where she wanted to be, because she'd never seen a woman with the career she now had when she was coming up in the industry. And after landing a spot on the show, she thought she could be that person for aspiring chefs.
And, maybe more importantly, her brand was different from other female chefs who flourished on TV. She wasn't like Giada or the Barefoot Contessa, with slick, oceanfront homes that made wealthy people feel seen. Or Rachael Ray, who made meals in fifteen minutes using canned ingredients. Nina wanted to show that food could be an experience. The same way that she and her mom used to cook together. All her childhood memories were tied in to their tiny kitchen. Nina could just as easily pull up the smell of her mother blending flour and rosemary in the mixer as she could breathe.”
― Erin La Rosa, For Butter or Worse

“Your mother was a different flavor of cake, Lavie. Lovely, but a little fey, if I may say.”
― Jeanette Lynes, The Apothecary's Garden

“My mom was never much of a cook---her style of cookery mostly involved cream-based canned soup and processed cheese---but her spaghetti salad was something of a delicacy in my town when I was growing up. The combination of spaghetti, ham, cubed cheese, and Miracle Whip doesn't sound as if it should go together, but somehow, when combined, the result is downright delicious. Maybe it's the fact that every bite reminds me of my mom, but when I crave something comforting and familiar, it's the first thing that comes to mind.”
― Dana Bate, Too Many Cooks

“Dani, don't worry about me. I can't let you do this for me," he said as he began to cry. "My baby girl, don't worry about me. Fight him, escape him, and know I'll always love you. Don't worry about me."
Sobbing, my vision blurred even as I stared at the arm around me covered in a large floral tattoo. Calendula, for Mom.”
― Sabrina Blackburry, Dirty Lying Dragons

“Jasmine emerged from her bedroom in a crystal-embellished ivory organza dress over sheer trousers with a turquoise beaded peacock cape over her shoulders. She felt like she was floating in the dress as Nadia walked behind her, holding the train of her cape. Suddenly, Jasmine realized something was missing.
"Just a moment, please."
She turned back swiftly, returning to her bedroom and dressing table. Pulling open the drawer, she found the marble jewelry box she was looking for, with a jade cuff bracelet inside. It wouldn't match her coronation robes, but it was just the finishing touch Jasmine needed: her mother's favorite piece of jewelry.”
― Alexandra Monir, Realm of Wonders

“Her most difficult choice had been which book to bring. She couldn't decide between something she'd never read before and one of her favorites.
So, of course, she'd packed two: a pirate adventure story she'd borrowed from the bookseller just the day before and the beloved book of short stories her mother used to read to her when she was a child.
A warm smile stretched across Belle's lips at the thought of her mother and the love of reading she'd instilled in her only daughter. She'd also nurtured Belle's sense of adventure.
"I'm finally going on one of my own, Mama," Belle whispered. "A true adventure.”
― Elizabeth Lim, A Twisted Tale Anthology

“Stella turned through the pages and saw the pikelets, pea-and-ham soup and the boiled mutton and capers of her childhood. Here was her mother's wimberry pie, her damson jam and her gooseberry fool. Where recipes came from relatives and friends, her mother's handwriting noted the case: the method for hot-water pastry had been handed down from her grandmother; the parsley in her suet dumplings came from her cousin; the parkin was her great-aunt's recipe. Stella remembered how she and her mother would always share the first slice of roast lamb at the stove and the secret glass of sherry they'd drink as they made a trifle.”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste

“Gail bent over the face. Suddenly, she lurched backward. Her hand went to her forehead. “Oh! This is Lloyd Crocker, the love of my life! We were engaged at the end of high school. He was the nicest, sweetest boy, but I messed up.”
“You? How did you mess it up?”
“Oh, he took me to a party at his friend’s house and I started flirting with his friend for some reason, maybe to make him jealous; I don’t remember. So, Lloyd took me home and asked for his ring back. He said he couldn’t trust me. Oh, I was brokenhearted over him.
After I married Rich, Lloyd looked me up and we went for a walk. By then, he had a child and so did I. Oh, how I’ve regretted losing him. I hope he had a good life.”
Elsie recognized her mother’s feckless heart had never truly been rehabilitated. She could forget anyone if the next person in line seemed entertaining.”
― Lynn Byk, The Fearless Moral Inventory of Elsie Finch