Top 44 Stove Quotes

I’m actually a very shy person, which is why I always chose to be in the kitchen. You can make people happy and entertain them, without really being there. You can make a very short appearance and then say, ‘I’ve got something on the stove, gotta go!’

I know that you like to see a man in the kitchen, but I’m skeptical of men who cook. A man should be focusing his attention on the woman, and not what’s on the stove.

My grandmother would let me stand on a stool stirring gravy in a large roasting dish in front of a wood-fired stove at the age of six. She wasn’t worried about the whole health and safety stuff.

I was like any new bride, who said, ‘I’m going to cook for my man.’ In fact, once I started a small kitchen fire in a pan. Smoke was pouring from the pan, and I got really scared. Right next to our stove is a small fire extinguisher. You know, easy access.

I bent my head over a stove in my early 20s and picked it up in my 30s.

As a girl, I had zero interest in the stove. I’ve always had a healthy appetite, especially for the wonderful meat and the fresh produce of California, but I was never encouraged to cook and just didn’t see the point in it.

I used to get on a stove wood pile at 5-6 years old and I would have a piece of stove wood and kindling bark as a pick, and I was a star.

When I have an idea, I turn down the flame, as if it were a little alcohol stove, as low as it will go. Then it explodes and that is my idea.

I’m the type of guy to put the water on the stove and then walk away and 10 seconds later be like, ‘Come on, boil’!

Cooking involves a deadline and hungry people and ingredients that expire in a week. It’s stressful. Cooking happens on the stove and on the clock. Baking happens with ingredients that last for months and come to life inside a warm oven. Baking is slow and leisurely.

I can still memory – taste the fresh buttermilk pancakes and hot buttermilk biscuits – both made with lard! – that were cooked on the top, or in the oven, of that ancient iron stove.

The money has always been wasted on me. I don’t care for beautiful things, funnily enough. I am my father’s daughter. The things that excite me are the smell of a wood-burning stove, uncultivated fields. My house is decaying and falling to pieces. It’s not had the love it deserves over twenty years.

When I was a kid of six or seven, I used to get up on the stove woodpile for a stage and I’d put on the wildest show.

If someone said, ‘Think of a happy place for you,’ I’d say a glacial plane near the South Pole, the wind howling, nobody in sight, a shack with a pot-belly stove and some tea.

My nanna was an extraordinary lady, and a good old-fashioned cook. She’d just be pottering around, cooking dinner for 25 people on a wood-fired stove without a problem.

Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.

Food brings back memories. I had a mom that wasn’t a good cook, so I would eat my grandma’s food. It was amazing because it brings back a time almost in Technicolor. I see her house, I see her stove; I think about what it felt like when I was sick, and it felt like love.

Hell’s Kitchen is open 24/7, and I’m cooking on the stove all day.

All around us right now, tucked into the valleys and along the coasts, bookshops glow in the winter light. Think of them like singular, magical, and multi-dimensional recipe boxes. They wait for us to pluck out a card, to stand over the stove, to start cooking.

I got all my boyhood in vanilla winter waves around the kitchen stove.

Lemon curd is one of the first things I remember cooking when I was old enough to use the stove without supervision. I looked up a recipe in my one of my mom’s Martha Stewart cookbooks and went to work, stirring anxiously and monitoring closely for signs that the mixture was thickening so as not to curdle the eggs.

There is nothing more mysterious than a TV set left on in an empty room. It is even stranger than a man talking to himself or a woman standing dreaming at her stove. It is as if another planet is communicating with you.

Simplicity is key. Some people like really high-tech kitchens, where you have warming drawers and ice makers and storage for a million different things. Honestly, for me, I need an oven, a stove top, a fridge and a sink.

A grill is just a source of heat. Just like a stove, it is very user-friendly.

First and foremost I am a chef, whether behind the stove at one of my Northern California restaurants or for the past 15 years in front of the camera on my Food Network cooking shows. Creating new dishes and flavor combinations that bring cooks and our restaurant guests pleasure is my job and I love it.

I love camping, everything about it – tents, the camping stove, sleeping bags. I’m obsessed with technology, be it synthesizers and speakers or tents and Gore-Tex.

They gave me away as a prize once – a Win Tony Curtis For A Weekend competition. The woman who won was disappointed. She’d hoped for second prize – a new stove.

You can’t be a chef and appear on television all the time. It’s impossible. At least when I earned my stars, I was always behind my stove.

I wouldn’t want to be in one room, 20 hours a day, 52 weeks a year, with four white walls and a stove. I think it stunts your growth as a human being.

I think every chef, not just in America, but across the world, has a double-edged sword – two jackets, one that’s driven, a self-confessed perfectionist, thoroughbred, hate incompetence and switch off the stove, take off the jacket and become a family man.

Sometimes those apartments we lived in weren’t finished, sometimes the rooms would be heated by the gas stove, sometimes we would heat our water on hot plates to take baths, and that was very sobering, especially as a child.

My home kitchen is airy, with a gas stove, a stainless-steel island table in the center and granite countertops. It’s very modest but there’s tons of counter space, so you can slap down three or four cutting boards.

My mother would put me on a wooden box at the stove and tell me to call her if certain things would happen. Like if the steam turns blue, that is danger!

My kitchen in New York City is in the Richard Meier building on Perry Street, so it’s ultra-modern: white, glass and transparent. It’s 180 square feet, with an induction stove. Everything’s hidden, so you don’t see the microwave or the fridge.

When I was alone, I lived on eggplant, the stove top cook’s strongest ally. I fried it and stewed it, and ate it crisp and sludgy, hot and cold. It was cheap and filling and was delicious in all manner of strange combinations. If any was left over, I ate it cold the next day on bread.

Death smells like homemade apple sauce as it cooks on the stove. It is not the strangling sense of illness. It is not fear. It is freedom.

At first, I was able to use a Bunsen burner attached to my mother’s gas stove, but the use of the kitchen as a laboratory came to an abrupt end when a minor explosion involving hydrogen sulphide spattered the newly painted decor and changed the colour from blue to dirty green!

Basically, I start my morning off with a Bustelo coffee made in a mocha pot – the Bialetti. I warm some milk on the side, on my stove, and I add one teaspoon or half a teaspoon of real sugar. I have two of these every morning. Even when I was pregnant.

Let me tell you a story about when I was growing up in Spain. Many Sundays, we would invite 30, 40, 50 people to the countryside, and my father would make a big paella. He put me in charge of the fire and the ‘stove’ – the rocks that hold the pan. But he wouldn’t let me cook. I got so unbelievably upset.

I’ve really learned a lot, really learned a lot, love is like a stove, burns you when it’s hot.

I try to teach my son about sanitation, especially when handling foods like chicken that could be dangerous. I remind him to wash his hands all the time. When my son cooks with me, he stands on a step stool so he can reach the stove. I teach him about safety and fire.

Grilling used to make me nervous, but then I learned to view the fire as just another source of heat, no different from a stove or an oven.

My kitchen is my baby. I don’t have kids, so cooking is sort of like my child. Renovating my kitchen has allowed me to channel my creativity the way parents work on a nursery. The centerpiece is my vintage 1950s Wedgewood stove.

Change is always good. You can’t keep tradition all the time. Yes, Grandma cooked on a wood stove but she would have used electricity if she could.