No one who cooks, cooks alone. Even at her most solitary, a cook in the kitchen is surrounded by generations of cooks past, the advice and menus of cooks present, the wisdom of cookbook writers.
A world without tomatoes is like a string quartet without violins.
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.'
To feel safe and warm on a cold wet night, all you really need is soup.
I will never eat fish eyeballs, and I do not want to taste anything commonly kept as a house pet, but otherwise I am a cinch to feed.
There is nothing like soup. It is by nature eccentric: no two are ever alike, unless of course you get your soup in a can.
When I was alone, I lived on eggplant, the stove top cook's strongest ally.
The best way to eat crabs, as everyone knows, is off newspaper at a large table with a large number of people.
Lentils are friendly - the Miss Congeniality of the bean world.
It is always wise to make too much potato salad. Even if you are cooking for two, make enough for five. Potato salad improves with age - that is, if you are lucky enough to have any left over.
