Having Bowed To The Inevitability Of The

It Is Puzzling To Me That Otherwise Sensitive People Develop A Real Docility About The Obvious Necessity Of Eating, At Least Once A Day, In Order To Stay Alive. Often They Lose Their Primal Enjoyment Of Flavors And Odors And Textures To The Point Of Complete Unawareness. And If Ever They Question This Progressive Numbing-off, They Shrug Helplessly In The Face Of Mediocrity Everywhere. Bit By Bit, Hour By Hour, They Say, We Are Being Forced To Accept The Not-so-good As The Best, Since There Is Little That Is Even Good To Compare It With.

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.

Central Heating, French Rubber Goods And Cookbooks Are Three Amazing Proofs Of Man's Ingenuity In Transforming Necessity Into Art, And, Of These, Cookbooks Are Perhaps Most Lastingly Delightful.

I Wrote From The Time I Was Four. It Was My Way Of Screaming And Yelling, The Primal Scream. I Wrote Like A Junkie, I Had To Have My Daily Fix.

Or You Can Broil The Meat, Fry The Onions, Stew The Garlic In The Red Wine...and Ask Me To Supper. I'll Not Care, Really, Even If Your Nose Is A Little Shiny, So Long As You Are Self-possessed And Sure That Wolf Or No Wolf, Your Mind Is Your Own And Your Heart Is Another's And Therefore In The Right Place.