since we must eat to live, we might as well do it with both grace and gusto.
It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.
Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
When shall we live if not now?
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.
The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight
Wine and cheese are ageless companions, like aspirin and aches, or June and moon, or good people and noble ventures.
No yoga exercise, no meditation in a chapel filled with music will rid you of your blues better than the humble task of making your own bread.
If time, so fleeting, must like humans die, let it be filled with good food and good talk, and then embalmed in the perfumes of conviviality.
Sharing our meals should be a joyful and a trustful act, rather than the cursory fulfillment of our social obligations.
I live with carpe diem engraved on my heart.
Dining partners, regardless of gender, social standing, or the years they've lived, should be chosen for their ability to eat - and drink! - with the right mixture of abandon and restraint. They should enjoy food, and look upon its preparation and its degustation as one of the human arts.
Too few of us, perhaps, feel that breaking of bread, the sharing of salt, the common dipping into one bowl, mean more than satisfaction of a need. We make such primal things as casual as tunes heard over a radio, forgetting the mystery and strength in both.
One martini is just right. Two martinis are too many. Three martinis are never enough.
gastronomy is and always has been connected with its sister art of love.
Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken.
Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat.
When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.
I believe that one of the most dignified ways we are capable of, to assert and then reassert our dignity in the face of poverty and war's fears and pains, is to nourish ourselves with all possible skill, delicacy, and ever-increasing enjoyment.
A writing cook and a cooking writer must be bold at the desk as well as the stove.
It is impossible to think of any good meal, no matter how plain or elegant, without soup or bread in it
All men are hungry. They always have been. They must eat, and when they deny themselves the pleasures of carrying out that need, they are cutting off part of their possible fullness, their natural realization of life, whether they are rich or poor.
A well-made Martini or Gibson, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.
Cheese has always been a food that both sophisticated and simple humans love.
In general, I think, human beings are happiest at table when they are very young, very much in love or very alone.
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