Those persons who suffer from indigestion, or who become drunk, are utterly ignorant of the true principles of eating and drinking.

(Breadbaking is) one of those almost hypnotic businesses, like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you filled with one of the world’s sweetest smells... there is no chiropractic treatment, no Yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel, that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread. M.F.K. Fisher, The Art of Eating

Eat food, not too much, mostly plants -- Michael Pollan “In Defense of
Food”

Albert himself, a pudgy sorrowful boy of twelve, ridiculed for his flab and the great insatiable fist of his appetite, had experienced the grand epiphany of his life in one of Udolfo’s dark smoky, and for him at least, forever exotic banquettes. Sampling the vermicelli with oil, garlic, olives and forest mushrooms, the osso buco with the little twists of bowtie pasta that drunk up its buttery juices, he knew just as certainly as Alexander must have known he was born to conquer, that he, Albert DiAngelo was born to eat. And far from being something to be ashamed of, it was glorious. Avocation and vocation, both, the highest pinnacle to which he could aspire.

- From TC Boyle’s short story Sorry Fugu, collected in “If the River was Whiskey.” This story was featured in NPR’s Selected Shorts. It is a great pleasure to cook and listen to the story read.

I love the following from Kim Sunee’s Trail of Crumbs:

“He popped open the Champagne and poured two glasses. He dipped his forefinger into my glass, touched the back of each of my ears with a drop of the cold liquid, and offered a toast. Olivier winked, and I could feel everything melting, the space between my legs. I leaned back and closed my eyes, ready for him to kiss me, but he filled my mouth with a sweetness I had never known before, deeper than honey. I opened my eyes to a handful of fresh fat figs dripping with their own milk. He whispered that we would roast them with red wine, taste them with acacia blossoms he would fry and powder with fine sugar.

.I pushed the hair off my face, and the sweetness from the wild figs stuck to my fingers and lips. I licked them again, willing myself to memorize that full-mouth flavor.”

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

From “A Room of One’s Own” by Virginia Woolf.

”Here! Try some of this, young lady!” And he held out a piece of chocolate, pale brown with cold. I smiled and took it, resolving to say as little as possible…
In my mouth the chocolate broke at first like gravel into many separate, disagreeable bits. I began to wonder if I could swallow them. Then they grew soft, and melted voluptuously into a warm stream down my throat.

From “The Measure of Her Powers” By M. F. K. Fisher

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers
- William Shakespeare - Romeo and Juliet - act 4, scene 2

From “The Sex Life of Food” by Bunny Crumpacker, Thomas Dunne Books, 2006

“Two Cannibalism Jokes:

First Cannibal: ‘I can’t stand my Mother-In-Law!’
Second Cannibal: ‘Just eat the noodles.’

Is it true that cannibals don’t eat clowns because they taste funny? George Carlin

Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women was my favorite book, one I read over and over again growing up. It’s amazing I ever learned to cook after indulging in this particular chapter so many times. I’d forgotten the details of the scene, though I remembered word for word Meg’s summation of what is wrong with dessert.

“Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burned black, for the salad dressing so aggravated her that she could not make it fit to ear. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had
to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the last. The blancmange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully `deaconed’.

“Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,” thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than
usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive
scene. Jo’s one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass
plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking
there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately.

“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.

“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of
the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie’s eyes, which would look merry in
spite of his heroic efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even `Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady,
and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.”

“‘There is no such passion in human nature as the passion for gravy among gentlemen. It’s nothing to say a joint won’t yield - a whole criminal wouldn’t yield - the amount of gravy they expect at dinner. And what I have undergone in consequence,’ cried Mrs Todgers, raising her eyes and shaking her head, ‘no-one would believe!’”

From Martin Chuzzlewit by Charles Dickens