Unlike some people who love to go out, I love to stay home.
There is nothing like roast chicken. It is helpful and agreeable, the perfect dish no matter what the circumstances. Elegant or homey, a dish for a dinner party or a family supper, it will not let you down.
Somehow or other, I always end up in a kitchen feeding a crowd.
It is my opinion that Norman Rockwell and his ilk have done more to make already anxious people feel guilty than anyone else.
My idea of a good time abroad is to visit someone’s house and hang out, poking into their cupboards if they will let me.
I am not a fancy cook or an ambitious cook. I am a plain old cook.
I love to eat out, but even more, I love to eat in.
The best way to feel at ease in the kitchen is to learn at someone’s knee.
The thing about homebodies is that they can usually be found at home. I usually am, and I like to feed people.
Cooking is like love. You don’t have to be particularly beautiful or very glamorous, or even very exciting to fall in love. You just have to be interested in it. It’s the same thing with food.
Not everyone can write a book or paint a picture or write a symphony, but almost anyone can fall in love. There is something almost miraculous in that.
When I was alone, I lived on eggplant, the stove top cook’s strongest ally. I fried it and stewed it, and ate it crisp and sludgy, hot and cold. It was cheap and filling and was delicious in all manner of strange combinations. If any was left over, I ate it cold the next day on bread.
I myself am not particularly interested in restaurant cooking. I don’t really want to learn how to make a napoleon. I’d much rather learn how to make a very good lemon cake, which you can make in your own home. I like plain, old-fashioned home food.
It is not just the Great Works of mankind that make a culture. It is the daily things, like what people eat and how they serve it.
Certainly, cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest.