Cooks Must Feed Their Egos As Well

People Ask Me: "why Do You Write About Food, And Eating, And Drinking? Why Don't You Write About The Struggle For Power And Security, And About Love, The Way The Others Do?" . . . The Easiest Answer Is To Say That, Like Most Other Humans, I Am Hungry.

I Like Old People When They Have Aged Well. And Old Houses With An Accumulation Of Sweet Honest Living In Them Are Good. And The Timelessness That Only The Passing Of Time Itself Can Give To Objects Both Inside And Outside The Spirit Is A Continuing Reassurance.

Life Is Hard, We Say. An Oyster's Life Is Worse. She Lives Motionless, Soundless, Her Own Cold Ugly Shape Her Only Dissipation.

There Is A Communication Of More Than Our Bodies When Bread Is Broken And Wine Is Drunk. And That Is My Answer When People Ask Me: Why Do You Write About Hunger, And Not Wars Or Love.

I Think That When Two People Are Able To Weave That Kind Of Invisible Thread Of Understanding And Sympathy Between Each Other, That Delicate Web, They Should Not Risk Tearing It. It Is Too Rare, And It Lasts Too Short A Time At Best.