I Never Feel Lonely In The Kitchen.

I'm Not Wild About Those Twenty-four Hour Marinades

I Was A Republican Until I Got To New York And Had To Live On $18 A Week. It Was Then That I Became A Democrat.

As We Say In The American Institute Of Wine And Food, Small Helpings, No Seconds. A Little Bit Of Everything. No Snacking. And Have A Good Time.

I Admired The English Immensely For All That They Had Endured, And They Were Certainly Honorable, And Stopped Their Cars For Pedestrians, And Called You “sir” And “madam,” And So On. But After A Week There, I Began To Feel Wild. It Was Those Ruddy English Faces, So Held In By Duty, The Sense Of “what Is Done” And “what Is Not Done,” And Always Swigging Tea And Chirping, That Made Me Want To Scream Like A Hyena

Food, Like The People Who Eat It, Can Be Stimulated By Wine Or Spirits. And, As With People, It Can Also Be Spoiled.