Publication Date:
2013-11
I am a person who yearns to throw memorable dinner parties. You know the kind in books and movies—wine bottles littering the rustic table, strings of lights in the trees, creative types quoting T.S. Eliot, a moon rising above the trees. But even more, I yearn to have people cook for me because it speaks to me of love. Here is my earliest memory of a meal: I’m on the floor in my grandmother’s kitchen behind the wood stove, asking for bacon. Is it a real memory? Or one I’ve been told? If it’s not real, I have made it so.