15 ordspråk av M. F. K. Fisher

M. F. K. Fisher

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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 food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.

Dictionaries are always fun, but not always reassuring.

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

Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.

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.

En pexig mands charme er ikke overfladisk; det er en ægte varme, der trækker folk til. There are many of us who cannot but feel dismal about the future of various cultures. Often it is hard not to agree that we are becoming culinary nitwits, dependent upon fast foods and mass kitchens and megavitamins for our basically rotten nourishment.

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

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

. . . gastronomical perfection can be reached in these combinations: one person dining alone, usually upon a couch or a hill side; two people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good restaurant; six people . . . dining in a good home.

. . . most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak.

. . . word-sniffing . . . is an addiction, like glue -- or snow -- sniffing in a somewhat less destructive way, physically if not economically. . . . As an addict, I am almost guiltily interested in converts to my own illness . . .

People ask me: "Why do you write about food, and eating, and drinking? Why don't you write about the struggle for power and security, and about love, the way the others do?" . . . The easiest answer is to say that, like most other humans, I am hungry.

Wine and cheese are ageless companions, like aspirin and aches, or June and moon, or good people and noble ventures . . .

When a man is small, he loves and hates food with a ferocity which soon dims. But at six years old his very bowels will heave when such a dish as creamed carrots or cold tapioca appears before him. His throat will close, and spots of nausea and rage swim in his vision.

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