Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken.

When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.

Sharing our meals should be a joyful and a trustful act, rather than the cursory fulfillment of our social obligations.

Dining partners, regardless of gender, social standing, or the years they've lived, should be chosen for their ability to eat - and drink! - with the right mixture of abandon and restraint. They should enjoy food, and look upon its preparation and its degustation as one of the human arts.

When shall we live if not now?

Family dinners are more often than not an ordeal of nervous indigestion, preceded by hidden resentment and ennui and accompanied by psychosomatic jitters.

At present, I myself do not know of any local witches or warlocks, but there are several people who seem to have an uncanny power over food.