They didn’t have any entrees she wanted. They had ones she could tolerate, and ones that she would even have liked, none of them were the one special thing she wanted, that one special thing she was waiting for. You could tell it bothered by the relentlessness in her voice as the time for having to pick her food of choice dwindled down more and more. When she finally made a quick, mindless decision, her tone of voice far from happy, she tried to put the whole thing behind her, but it came again, slowly binding her throat and eyes, pushing, pushing, pushing until she started to cry.
we arrived at the resturant, not one of us has whispered a word, both heartbroken. what were we thinking? who shares an entree with an ex? was this a date? who does this? my heart is still on my sleeve, but knowing my mentality, i can only imagine that shortly this will all be a bad memory or i could only hope…
I had an amazing entree at a french restaurant last night. The steak was moist, and melted in my mouth. There was delicious balsamic reduction drizzled over large crumbles of blue cheese.
You promised to make me an apple pie…. why all the eggs…we are having scrambled eggs for entree….and then…apple pie…no figs flambe!!! how about rhubarb pie then…
forget the pie…… the French dont do pie…they call it tart!
Entree comes before a main meal. It is an appetiser. Any ingredients can be used and it is normally savoury in flavour. It can be served in a plate or decorative bowl.
I ate dinner quite early today. The typical entree sat on its plate in front of me: A piece of chicken, which looked tasteless, cooked spinach, and stuffed shells. Despite it was a dreary and gloomy Sunday, it was pretty good.
The cat ate the entire batch of cornish hens, which was the dinner party’s entree. He was found later, vomiting in the hallway. And so the party began, no cornish hen for dinner, but there was cat puke in the hallway.
It has been several days since I last saw you, and my hunger is spiraling out of control. My obsession is quickly becoming insatiable. I am haunted by images of great flashing jaws digging into the vulnerable flesh of my exposed underbelly while you, being the very definition of innocence and purity, cannot understand the tenderness that is merely the appetizer in this dinner for two.
You are hungry too. I can see it in your eyes when you lick your lips and blush, your ears gently blooming crimson in air thick with vulnerability. It is not for me that you present this bouquet, and that makes the wine all the more bittersweet. I am not the entrée you ordered – yet you slice a sliver from my heart, just the same.
“How does it taste?” I ask.
You are silent; the answer is deafening. I am not what you wanted, and it hurts.
to enter is to find a place to begin. But how can we begin when we don’t know the ending. Just begin, who knows where anything will lead us, all we must do is just to begin. BEGIN wow.
We waited for the warm entrees to be placed before us, like two sacrifices awaiting their due calling. I looked up at her thin neckline, her pearl necklace, and wondered to myself, “Does quiet silence ever smell or taste so sweet.” We then looked up at each other, almost unintentionally, and as the plates were put beneath us, I wondered if anticipation had ever tasted so tender.
What else is there to be done? Find the inner peace that you, like the rest of us, need. Forgive yourself for your mistakes and wrongdoings, fix what you can while you still can, and embrace the future. You’ll soon be leaving this place and most of the people and memories will stay behind. You have no idea how much better everything gets when the reminders of what you’ve done are no longer there. It might not be the delicious entree in a grand meal of life, but life goes on because it has to.
I want to write a story here about how entrées come at a nice dinner and there’s been a bit of a commotion and I can’t believe I’ve stayed, or they’ve stayed, or I’m waiting to deliver news about leaving the country in a few weeks or that I’ve finally decided to start talking to my brother or something. . . It feels forced to do so, to conjure up something from nothing that isn’t new or original.
Sometimes I really hate writing. Not the actual writing or the creation, but the whole idea of it. . . the concept behind having to originate something, when all that’s left are reruns. It’s tough, man.
before every entree we have our appetizer, our salad, our cheese plate, our bread, our wine, our water, and . and after our entree we have our dessert and our dessert wine. but what happens when we don’t?
The entree was amazing, it was a treat to all fo the senses. My plate was steaming and ready to eat. I dug in. This was an incredible entree! I can only wish that this taste would stay with me forever.
I could have looked out over that river for ages. Everything I needed was there. My before and my after–they didn’t matter. The playground was to my right, and the waters stretched down on my left. We tried to regain our childhood on the right, but inevitability, it was carried away by the strong currents. No one can reach into the past, even when the swings are there to carry her up to the sky. She can reach and she can grasp, but nothing will come of it. And nothing will come of me standing here now, thinking about how lonely and confused I am. But I’ll do it anyway…because what else is there to be done?
You promised. Well, you didn’t promise, not exactly, but you said we would and that implies a promise, doesn’t it? You said we’d keep in touch, that when we grew up, you’d show me around Pairee and we’d laugh over our escargot for the entrée and sip on champagne for dessert in a restaurant and we’d–
It was pretty to look at and they assured herself that it would be pretty to eat as well. But she knew better. Inside her, down her throat and in her stomach and intestines, the fat would just pile up up up and she’d be ugly. She’d look like a monster. A hideous monster. She was not pretty like crème brûlée à la mode or chocolate gelato. Eating made her ugly and fat. So she smiled and said, “I’m not that hungry.”
So I’m seated now, looking over this menu, glancing back to make quick peaks at the other full tables. I am the only one dining alone. I will order an appetizer, an entrée, and maybe even dessert. And then I will leave this place full of people to my empty house, to be by myself.
The entrée set before me was a remarkable display of meats, sauces, and greens, all seasoned and simmered to perfection. My boyfriend’s mother was beaming, a beacon of light from her cheeks and nose, as I sampled the mosaic of delicacies before me. The flavors practically exploded in my mouth, like little fireworks popping around the back of my teeth.
I wanted to bolt as soon as I saw his face. I swore I’d never go on a blind date again. I took one look at his horse face and wanted to run. By the time the entree was served, I was ready to marry him on the spot.
You see, I’d love to feel glamorous and dine in at a restaurant with three course meals and enjoy an entree. I cannot even write right now, because I am just thinking about how i missed yesterdays one word: Sound. Ugh..
I ate a little bit of fish the other day. Mmmm what a wonderful but oily endeavor. I wish I had used a bit less olive oil but there was plenty of garlic and pepper so it turned out wonderfully. I also, for the first time, used onions on my fish. It became flaky and wonderful and went down quite well.
I sat across from him at the table staring at my plate, the entree looked horrible. He spoke softly and I looked up making a face we both laughed, leaving the restaurant.
She was starving for it, wriggling against the ropes, starving, and the demon just smiled. Smiled with her face, and traced the knife along her collarbone. “No, this is less of an entree, more of a snack.” It sounded bored.
Last night, my family and I went out to dinner. I stared at the menu, even though I already knew what it was that I wanted. Pulled pork sandwich. Of course. Nothing out of the ordinary here. I wanted to skim the menu in order to get some sort of approval from my parents. Strange the ways we go looking for approval from our parents.
Much to my dismay, the entree squirmed on the plate. Unaccustomed to the practices of this culture, and most comfortable with my own, I squirmed in my seat, unsure of how to approach the plate.
A french word of food. sounds delicious
They didn’t have any entrees she wanted. They had ones she could tolerate, and ones that she would even have liked, none of them were the one special thing she wanted, that one special thing she was waiting for. You could tell it bothered by the relentlessness in her voice as the time for having to pick her food of choice dwindled down more and more. When she finally made a quick, mindless decision, her tone of voice far from happy, she tried to put the whole thing behind her, but it came again, slowly binding her throat and eyes, pushing, pushing, pushing until she started to cry.
Th entree looked delicious as the waiter set it down on the table next to us. The couple shared it lovingly.
we arrived at the resturant, not one of us has whispered a word, both heartbroken. what were we thinking? who shares an entree with an ex? was this a date? who does this? my heart is still on my sleeve, but knowing my mentality, i can only imagine that shortly this will all be a bad memory or i could only hope…
I had an amazing entree at a french restaurant last night. The steak was moist, and melted in my mouth. There was delicious balsamic reduction drizzled over large crumbles of blue cheese.
delicious.
mouthwatering.
juicy.
succulent.
scintillating.
You promised to make me an apple pie…. why all the eggs…we are having scrambled eggs for entree….and then…apple pie…no figs flambe!!! how about rhubarb pie then…
forget the pie…… the French dont do pie…they call it tart!
Entree comes before a main meal. It is an appetiser. Any ingredients can be used and it is normally savoury in flavour. It can be served in a plate or decorative bowl.
I ate dinner quite early today. The typical entree sat on its plate in front of me: A piece of chicken, which looked tasteless, cooked spinach, and stuffed shells. Despite it was a dreary and gloomy Sunday, it was pretty good.
The cat ate the entire batch of cornish hens, which was the dinner party’s entree. He was found later, vomiting in the hallway. And so the party began, no cornish hen for dinner, but there was cat puke in the hallway.
We always do the same dance over our dinner entree. He wants beef and beans, so to speak, and I want lean and green. Guess who wins?
eat an entree
Is this the entré for Susy and Nama?
It has been several days since I last saw you, and my hunger is spiraling out of control. My obsession is quickly becoming insatiable. I am haunted by images of great flashing jaws digging into the vulnerable flesh of my exposed underbelly while you, being the very definition of innocence and purity, cannot understand the tenderness that is merely the appetizer in this dinner for two.
You are hungry too. I can see it in your eyes when you lick your lips and blush, your ears gently blooming crimson in air thick with vulnerability. It is not for me that you present this bouquet, and that makes the wine all the more bittersweet. I am not the entrée you ordered – yet you slice a sliver from my heart, just the same.
“How does it taste?” I ask.
You are silent; the answer is deafening. I am not what you wanted, and it hurts.
to enter is to find a place to begin. But how can we begin when we don’t know the ending. Just begin, who knows where anything will lead us, all we must do is just to begin. BEGIN wow.
We waited for the warm entrees to be placed before us, like two sacrifices awaiting their due calling. I looked up at her thin neckline, her pearl necklace, and wondered to myself, “Does quiet silence ever smell or taste so sweet.” We then looked up at each other, almost unintentionally, and as the plates were put beneath us, I wondered if anticipation had ever tasted so tender.
What else is there to be done? Find the inner peace that you, like the rest of us, need. Forgive yourself for your mistakes and wrongdoings, fix what you can while you still can, and embrace the future. You’ll soon be leaving this place and most of the people and memories will stay behind. You have no idea how much better everything gets when the reminders of what you’ve done are no longer there. It might not be the delicious entree in a grand meal of life, but life goes on because it has to.
i d k this so yeah i am just going with this and i dont like this word on this blog i sign
I want to write a story here about how entrées come at a nice dinner and there’s been a bit of a commotion and I can’t believe I’ve stayed, or they’ve stayed, or I’m waiting to deliver news about leaving the country in a few weeks or that I’ve finally decided to start talking to my brother or something. . . It feels forced to do so, to conjure up something from nothing that isn’t new or original.
Sometimes I really hate writing. Not the actual writing or the creation, but the whole idea of it. . . the concept behind having to originate something, when all that’s left are reruns. It’s tough, man.
before every entree we have our appetizer, our salad, our cheese plate, our bread, our wine, our water, and . and after our entree we have our dessert and our dessert wine. but what happens when we don’t?
The entree was amazing, it was a treat to all fo the senses. My plate was steaming and ready to eat. I dug in. This was an incredible entree! I can only wish that this taste would stay with me forever.
I could have looked out over that river for ages. Everything I needed was there. My before and my after–they didn’t matter. The playground was to my right, and the waters stretched down on my left. We tried to regain our childhood on the right, but inevitability, it was carried away by the strong currents. No one can reach into the past, even when the swings are there to carry her up to the sky. She can reach and she can grasp, but nothing will come of it. And nothing will come of me standing here now, thinking about how lonely and confused I am. But I’ll do it anyway…because what else is there to be done?
Two seconds, three four, seven hundred and eighty two – all without a series of ellipses and somehow they string to form a second sentence.
The first one was written before time had begun to pass by, and cobwebs in the corner turn copper gold.
puši kurac znam da je neka fora
You promised. Well, you didn’t promise, not exactly, but you said we would and that implies a promise, doesn’t it? You said we’d keep in touch, that when we grew up, you’d show me around Pairee and we’d laugh over our escargot for the entrée and sip on champagne for dessert in a restaurant and we’d–
Entree the first word that people use as their way to enter the world of being pretentious.
It was pretty to look at and they assured herself that it would be pretty to eat as well. But she knew better. Inside her, down her throat and in her stomach and intestines, the fat would just pile up up up and she’d be ugly. She’d look like a monster. A hideous monster. She was not pretty like crème brûlée à la mode or chocolate gelato. Eating made her ugly and fat. So she smiled and said, “I’m not that hungry.”
So I’m seated now, looking over this menu, glancing back to make quick peaks at the other full tables. I am the only one dining alone. I will order an appetizer, an entrée, and maybe even dessert. And then I will leave this place full of people to my empty house, to be by myself.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
The entrée set before me was a remarkable display of meats, sauces, and greens, all seasoned and simmered to perfection. My boyfriend’s mother was beaming, a beacon of light from her cheeks and nose, as I sampled the mosaic of delicacies before me. The flavors practically exploded in my mouth, like little fireworks popping around the back of my teeth.
“Superb as usual, Mrs. Wainsworth,” I told her.
I wanted to bolt as soon as I saw his face. I swore I’d never go on a blind date again. I took one look at his horse face and wanted to run. By the time the entree was served, I was ready to marry him on the spot.
You see, I’d love to feel glamorous and dine in at a restaurant with three course meals and enjoy an entree. I cannot even write right now, because I am just thinking about how i missed yesterdays one word: Sound. Ugh..
I ate a little bit of fish the other day. Mmmm what a wonderful but oily endeavor. I wish I had used a bit less olive oil but there was plenty of garlic and pepper so it turned out wonderfully. I also, for the first time, used onions on my fish. It became flaky and wonderful and went down quite well.
The entree was wonderful. Where did they get the reciepe? I would love a copy of it.
The entrees were delicious. I could not believe I had managed to cook the meat perfectly, and for all these people! It had been a wonderful party.
I sat across from him at the table staring at my plate, the entree looked horrible. He spoke softly and I looked up making a face we both laughed, leaving the restaurant.
There was a little door in his sandwich.
Sherlock scowled down at the food on his plate, clear displeasure etched into his every feature. John laughed. “It’s escargot, ‘Lock.”
“It’s… snails,” Sherlock said, slowly. He pushed the plate away. “I won’t eat this. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Don’t be a child, you had a steak just yesterday.”
“I am now.” Sherlock peered up at John with disgust. “We’re never going to France again, John.”
John chuckled. “I thought it was nice. Romantic.”
“Never. Again.”
She was starving for it, wriggling against the ropes, starving, and the demon just smiled. Smiled with her face, and traced the knife along her collarbone. “No, this is less of an entree, more of a snack.” It sounded bored.
Last night, my family and I went out to dinner. I stared at the menu, even though I already knew what it was that I wanted. Pulled pork sandwich. Of course. Nothing out of the ordinary here. I wanted to skim the menu in order to get some sort of approval from my parents. Strange the ways we go looking for approval from our parents.
Much to my dismay, the entree squirmed on the plate. Unaccustomed to the practices of this culture, and most comfortable with my own, I squirmed in my seat, unsure of how to approach the plate.