If I am an advocate for anything, it is to move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. Walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food. It’s a plus for everybody.
I don’t have to agree with you to like you or respect you.
An egg in anything makes it better.
Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.
Meals make the society, hold the fabric together in lots of ways that were charming and interesting and intoxicating to me. The perfect meal, or the best meals, occur in a context that frequently has very little to do with the food itself.
Context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one’s life.
You learn a lot about someone when you share a meal together.
Don’t lie about it. You made a mistake. Admit it and move on. Just don’t do it again. Ever.
What nicer thing can you do for somebody than make them breakfast?
I wanted kicks—the kind of melodramatic thrills and chills I’d yearned for since childhood, the kind of adventure I’d found as a little boy in the pages of my Tintin comic books.
I have long believed that it is only right and appropriate that before one sleeps with someone, one should be able—if called upon to do so—to make them a proper omelet in the morning. Surely that kind of civility and selflessness would be both good manners and good for the world. Perhaps omelet skills should be learned at the same time you learn to fuck. Perhaps there should be an unspoken agreement that in the event of loss of virginity, the more experienced of the partners should, afterward, make the other an omelet—passing along the skill at an important and presumably memorable moment.
Maybe that’s enlightenment enough: to know that there is no final resting place of the mind; no moment of smug clarity. Perhaps wisdom… is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.
I’m not afraid to look like an idiot.
Eat adventurously around a child. Let them find their way to the food.