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

It is impossible to think of any good meal, no matter how plain or elegant, without soup or bread in it

I live with carpe diem engraved on my heart.

If time, so fleeting, must like humans die, let it be filled with good food and good talk, and then embalmed in the perfumes of conviviality.

A writing cook and a cooking writer must be bold at the desk as well as the stove.

Write one good clean sentence and put a period at the end of it. Then write another one.

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.