Cooks Must Feed Their Egos

It Is Puzzling To Me That Otherwise Sensitive People Develop A Real Docility About The Obvious Necessity Of Eating, At Least Once A Day, In Order To Stay Alive. Often They Lose Their Primal Enjoyment Of Flavors And Odors And Textures To The Point Of Complete Unawareness. And If Ever They Question This Progressive Numbing-off, They Shrug Helplessly In The Face Of Mediocrity Everywhere. Bit By Bit, Hour By Hour, They Say, We Are Being Forced To Accept The Not-so-good As The Best, Since There Is Little That Is Even Good To Compare It With.

Cheese Has Always Been A Food That Both Sophisticated And Simple Humans Love.

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

Children And Old People And The Parents In Between Should Be Able To Live Together, In Order To Learn How To Die With Grace, Together. And I Fear That This Is Purely Utopian Fantasy.

A Potato Is A Poor Thing, Poorly Treated. More Often Than Not It Is Cooked In So Unthinking And Ignorant A Manner As To Make One Feel That It Has Never Before Been Encountered In The Kitchen.