I love the song ‘I Hope You Dance’ by Lee Ann Womack. I was going to write that song, but someone beat me to it.
It’s so tedious writing cookbooks or writing the recipes because I’ve never been much of a measurer. But to write a book, you have to measure everything.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
Talent is like electricity. We don’t understand electricity. We use it.
Making a decision to write was a lot like deciding to jump into a frozen lake.
I make writing as much a part of my life as I do eating or listening to music.
Writing and cookery are just two different means of communication.
When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’
When I write, I tend to twist my hair. Something for my small mind to do, I guess.
If I have a monument in this world, it is my son.
I will look after you and I will look after anybody you say needs to be looked after, any way you say. I am here. I brought my whole self to you. I am your mother.
My mother said I must always be intolerant of ignorance but understanding of illiteracy.
I have a feeling that I make a very good friend, and I’m a good mother, and a good sister, and a good citizen. I am involved in life itself – all of it. And I have a lot of energy and a lot of nerve.
A mother’s love liberates.
Listen carefully to what country people call mother wit. In those homely sayings are couched the collective wisdom of generations.
Mother’s life flowed radiant. Fluorescent-tipped waves on incoming tides.
My mother raised me, and then freed me,
Cooking certain dishes, like roast pork, reminds me of my mother.
My mother is so full of joy and life. I am her child. And that is better than being the child of anyone else in the world.
I became the kind of parent my mother was to me.