“Margaery, you're clever, be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that queer fish from the Summer Isles that puffs up to ten times its own size when you poke it.""They call them puff fish, Grandmother.""Of course they do. Summer Islanders have no imagination.”

“My old grandmother always used to say, Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever.”

“The frantic summer fishermen who pay a price and glut the decks with fish in the afternoon wonder vaguely what to do with them, sacks and baskets and mountains of porgies and blows and blackfish, sea robins, and even slender dogfish, all to be torn up greedily, to die, and to be thrown back for the waiting gulls. The gulls swarm and wait, knowing the summer fisherman will sicken of their plenty. Who wants to clean and scale a sack of fish? It's harder to give away fish than it is to catch them.”

“She turned and smiled. “Kitchen-sink pasta.”“My favorite. But you really ought to come up with a better name for it than kitchen-sink pasta. Sounds only slightly more appealing than bathtub gefilte fish.”She shuddered. “Who in god’s name would make bathtub gefilte fish?”“I dated a Jewish girl whose grandmother made it,” I laughed.”

“Too many men have died in the name of old age. I know, because my grandmother was one of them.”

“When I hear a man say that his childhood was the happiest time of his life, I think (puff) my friend, you have had a pretty poor life.”