Salad Is Roughage And A

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.

I Cannot Count The Good People I Know Who To My Mind Would Be Even Better If They Bent Their Spirits To The Study Of Their Own Hungers.

Between The Ages Of Twenty And Fifty, John Doe Spends Some Twenty Thousand Hours Chewing And Swallowing Food, More Than Eight Hundred Days And Nights Of Steady Eating. The Mere Contemplation Of This Fact Is Upsetting Enough.

Wine And Cheese Are Ageless Companions, Like Aspirin And Aches, Or June And Moon, Or Good People And Noble Ventures.

...i Prefer Not To Have Among My Guests Two People Or More, Of Any Sex, Who Are In The First Wild Tremours Of Love. It Is Better To Invite Them After Their New Passion Has Settled, Has Solidified Into A Quieter Reciprocity Of Emotions. (it Is Also A Waste Of Good Food, To Serve It To New Lovers.)