I wrote from the time I was four. It was my way of screaming and yelling, the primal scream. I wrote like a junkie, I had to have my daily fix.
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But if I must be alone, I refuse to be alone as if it were something weak and distasteful, like convalescence.
I am more modest now, but I still think that one of the pleasantest of all emotions is to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world.
Wine and cheese are ageless companions, like aspirin and aches, or June and moon, or good people and noble ventures.
It is hard and perhaps impossible for many people to recognize the difference between innocence and naiveté.
Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight
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