Nothing is more memorable than a smell. One scent can be unexpected, momentary and fleeting, yet conjure up a childhood summer beside a lake in the mountains; another, a moonlit beach; a third, a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.
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Never would it occur to a child that a sheep, a pig, a cow or a chicken was good to eat, while, like Milton's Adam, he would eagerly make a meal off fruits, nuts, thyme, mint, peas and broad beans which penetrate further and stimulate not only the appetite but other vague and deep nostalgias. We are closer to the Vegetable Kingdom than we know; is it not for man alone that mint, thyme, sage, and rosemary exhale crush me and eat me! -- for us that opium poppy, coffee-berry, tea-plant and vine perfect themselves? Their aim is to be absorbed by us, even if it can only be achieved by attaching themselves to roast mutton.
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The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
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The brown bag, of course, had its imperfections. While some kids carried roast beef sandwiches, others had peanut butter. I have no way of knowing if all of those brown bags contained 'nutritionally adequate diets.' But I do know that those brown bags and those lunch pails symbolized parental love and responsibility.
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Roast Beef, medium, is not only a food. It is a philosophy. Seated at Life's Dining Table, with the menu of Morals before you, your eye wanders a bit over the entr?es, the hors d'oeuvres, and the things ? la though you know that Roast Beef, medium, is safe and sane, and sure.
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Man who waits for roast duck to fly into mouth must wait very, very long time.
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As a result of trying to solve the big problems we face in life, many of us end up sacrificing individual relationships by doing things that we may consider as being small or insignificant at the time. This reminds us of the George and Gracie routine where George asks Gracie, How do you cook a pot roast? She replied, I put both a big pot roast and a small pot roast in the oven. When the small one is burnt, the big one is done just right!
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Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to cut roast beef.
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If you place a frog in boiling water, it will jump right back out. But if you put the frog in cold water and heat it gradually, it will sit there and slowly roast alive.
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Then we'd get behind them and drive them up a valley. Then we'd stab a pig, it would cry, and then we'd roast it and eat it.
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Mustard's no good without roast beef.
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The feeling of friendship is like that of being comfortably filled with roast beef; love, like being enlivened with champagne.
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Who lives longer: the man who takes heroin for two years and dies, or the man who lives on roast beef, water and potatoes till ninety-five? On...
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