Doors are going to open-doors you can't even imagine exist.

It's sad, but a relief as well, to know that two things so closely bound together can separate with so little violence.

Cooking saved my life! Sure, there were some miserable moments, but that was sort of the point, to find something challenging and consuming enough to take a place in the center of my life into which was creeping a horrible feeling of stasis and the doom of mediocrity.

So the end may be a long time coming, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have a way of sneaking up on you.

Two years ago, I was a twenty-nine year old secretary. Now I am a thirty-one year old writer. I get paid very well to sit around in my pajamas and type on my ridiculously fancy iMac, unless I'd rather take a nap. Feel free to hate me -- I certainly would.

Sometimes, if you want to be happy, you've got to run away to Bath and marry a punk rocker. Sometimes you've got to dye your hair cobalt blue, or wander remote islands in Sicily, or cook your way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year, for no very good reason.

I got my undergrad in Creative Writing, and then I didn't get my Masters in obsession, because I figured I already had that covered.