The old days were slower. People buttered their bread without guilt and sat down to dinner en famille.

Cookbooks hit you where you live. You want comfort; you want security; you want food; you want to not be hungry and not only do you want those basic things fixed, you want it done in a really nice, gentle way that makes you feel loved. That's a big desire, and cookbooks say to the person reading them, 'If you will read me, you will be able to do this for yourself and for others. You will make everybody feel better.'

Dinner alone is one of life's pleasures.

And, for an unsurpassed double whammy, there is talking about eating while you are eating with friends.

The old days were slower. People buttered their bread without guilt and sat down to dinner en famille.

In this world of uncertainty and woe, one thing remains unchanged: Fresh, canned, pureed, dried, salted, sliced, and served with sugar and cream, or pressed into juice, the tomato is reliable, friendly, and delicious. We would be nothing without it.

When I was alone, I lived on eggplant, the stove top cook's strongest ally.