Word: gooey
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...children did the rest. Daughter René, dipping into a box of raisins, managed to spill about half of them on the tax office floor, happily trampled them into a gooey mess. Son Robbie wet his diapers, and Margaret Lockwood calmly changed them, draping the reeking castoffs over a chair...
Striving to persuade housewives to do more home baking, the Pillsbury Co. has given away more than $1,000,000 in baking-contest prizes, many of them for gooey concoctions that would dull even the sweet tooth of a teenager. Last week, in a pleasant change of menu, the grand prize in Pillsbury's annual national baking contest, held in the ballroom of Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria, was awarded for a scarcely disguised variation on one of the simplest of all desserts, apple dumplings. The winner, whose spicy apple twists* triumphed over such dishes as golden empire torte...
...film and glued onto it a cloying narration and a sound track that often seems loudly superfluous. Even as the lemmings plunge crazily toward the ocean-a sight that needs no gratuitous comment of any sort-the orchestra swells to bursting and the voice of the narrator booms their gooey epitaph: "And so is acted out the legend of mass suicide . . . It is not given to man to understand all of nature's mysteries...
...affectionate welcome, some of the press ranged from gooey valentines to hearty backslaps that gave the Cornwallis ritual at least the virtue of dignity. The Louisville Courier-Journal gushed that Elizabeth looked like an English rose "with a little of the morning dew still on the petals." Perhaps the deepest curtsy came from the Philadelphia Inquirer, whose greeting used "Her Majesty" seven times and "the Queen" only twice−a ratio of respect unmatched by the London Times itself. Long Island's Newsday burbled: WE LOVE THE QUEEN...
Perfume of Sanctity. Least flattering of all is the portrait Cozzens draws of Marjorie Penrose's proselytizing Roman Catholic friend, Mrs. Pratt. Mrs. Pratt has a sweet tooth for vicarious sins, and she loves the gooey drippings of intimate confidences from flesh-bedeviled souls like Marjorie. About her person she dabs the odor of sanctity as if it were the latest Parisian perfume. But as she prattles of sin and piety in the quiet of Arthur Winner's garden, her innuendoes loose the first of the novel's rockslides of revelation. On the very...