“Raisins again. I like raisins, but I have a habit of losing one or two on the floor every time I eat them. I always find them later and think they are: a) a mouse turd or b) a cockroach. Then I figure out it's a raisin and sigh with relief. This pretty much happens every time I find a lost raisin.”

“I myself, however, could never resist the temptation to read raisin paste for wine in the story of the Miracle of Cana. "When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made raisin paste ... he said unto the bridegroom, 'Every man doth at the beginning doth set forth good raisin paste, and when men have well drunk [eaten? the text is no doubt corrupt], then that which is worse, but thou hast kept the good raisin paste until now.”

“What happens to a dream deferred? / Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?”

“It's all good, apart from the raisins.”

“Spartacus," I called, "how's it hanging?" Probably not too well. Once you're dead, had your organs removed, and are resurrected as an undead mummified cat, your testicles probably looked like old raisins that had rolled under the couch. Raisins didn't tend to...hang.”

“Right now I would give all the yogurt raisins in all the world for a heart made of ice.”