“I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?”

“I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?What price bananas? Are you my Angel?”

“Armando's not a pork chop, I say. She shrugs. At least a pork chop would feed you.”

“Everything comes at a price. Everthing in your life. The question you have to ask yourself is, what price are you willing to pay?”

“I went to the juice isle, I learned something. Cranberries are taking over everything. What do you got, apples? Put some cranberrise in there, make it 50/50. Cran-apple. Grapes? Cran-grape. Mangos? Cran-mango. Pork chops? Cran-chop!”

“The question I've asked more often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I supposed these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking how are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?”