欧宝娱乐

“Here march the eaters of earth,
the swallowers of rain.”
― J. Aleksandr Wootton, Forgetting: impressions from the millennial borderland

“Anna rushed onward, past another row of homes, and found her way to the farm where they kept their chicken coop. She opened the netting to collect a fresh batch of eggs. "Morning, Erik, Elin, and Elise," she greeted the hens. "I've got to move quick today. Freya is coming!" She gathered at least a dozen eggs, closed up the coop, and carefully carried the bucket and the tea back to the house.
An older man was pulling a cart with flowers down the street. "Morning, Anna!"
"Morning, Erling!" Anna called. "Gorgeous blooms today. Do you have my favorite?"
Erling produced two stems of golden crocuses. The yellow flowers were as bright as the sun. Anna inhaled their sweet aroma. "Thank you! Come by later for some fresh bread. First batch should be out of the oven midmorning."
"Thank you, Anna! I will!" he said, and Anna hurried along, trying not to crack the eggs or stop again. She had a habit of stopping to talk. A lot.”
― Jen Calonita, Conceal, Don't Feel

“As dawn broke over the mountains on the horizon, Iduna rode into the sleepy village. She spotted the sign for Tomally's Baked Goods almost immediately. It was just as her friend had described in her letters. The bakery was attached to a modest house that was clean and bright, with a window box filled with golden crocus. They were Anna's favorite flower. It had to be a sign.”
― Jen Calonita, Conceal, Don't Feel

“She opened the tin to show Candace the dark red strands, a fortune in her palm, dearer than this much caviar, this many shaved truffles; it was for spices like this that Columbus had set out in his ship. "Each strand is handpicked from the center of a crocus flower that blooms two weeks of the year.”
― Elin Hilderbrand, The Love Season

“When we arrived, the wooden picnic table on the porch was already covered with crates of delicate purple crocuses, the remains of yesterday's haul. So this is where my saffron comes from; the spice is actually the stigma (the pollen trap) of the flower.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes