It Is Impossible To Think Of Any

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 Can No More Think Of My Own Life Without Thinking Of Wine And Wines And Where They Grew For Me And Why I Drank Them When I Did And Why I Picked The Grapes And Where I Opened The Oldest Procurable Bottles, And All That, Than I Can Remember Living Before I Breathed.

Family Dinners Are More Often Than Not An Ordeal Of Nervous Indigestion, Preceded By Hidden Resentment And Ennui And Accompanied By Psychosomatic Jitters.

A Writing Cook And A Cooking Writer Must Be Bold At The Desk As Well As The Stove.

It Is All A Question Of Weeding Out What You Yourself Like Best To Do, So That You Can Live Most Agreeably In A World Full Of An Increasing Number Of Disagreeable Surprises.