My love sits on the stove like a cat with an oven mitt for an ass.

I buried the lasagna, because it was better than disposing of a dead body. I’ve been burned in a relationship, but never in an oven. I’ll try harder.

I’m a New Yorker; my oven is used for storage.

I make love sensually, and without the aid of a fancy recipe. I just open the box, add water, stir a bit, and pop it in the oven.

You can shove a cat in an oven, but that doesn’t make it a biscuit.

The Judgement is not a question, it’s a sure answer, as to a clump of dough, that will yeast and rise, or go in the oven and burn to crust.

I mean really, how could an artistic individual stay grounded in the nitty-gritty of how many minutes per pound meat has to stay in the oven when trying to fathom the creative philosophy behind the...

I make cuddles the way I make clam chowder—without complaining and without jelly. If you assume the position, I’ll put the biscuits in the oven.