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If time, so fleeting, must like humans die, let it be filled with good food and good talk, and then embalmed in the perfumes of conviviality.

M. F. K. Fisher

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M. F. K. Fisher
Age: 83 †
Born: 1908
Born: July 3
Died: 1992
Died: June 22
Author
Diarist
Memoirist
Screenwriter
Writer
Albion
Michigan
M.F.K. Fisher
Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher
Talk
Dies
Conviviality
Humans
Embalmed
Must
Perfumes
Good
Perfume
Time
Fleeting
Like
Filled
Food

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It is hard and perhaps impossible for many people to recognize the difference between innocence and naiveté.
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In spite of my conviction that a group of deliberately assembled relatives can be one of the dullest, if not most dangerous, gatherings in the world, I am smugly foolhardly enough to have invited all my available family, more than once, to dine with me.
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. . . 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 . . .
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Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
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I can no more think of my own life without thinking of wine and wines and where they grew for me and why I drank them when I did and why I picked the grapes and where I opened the oldest procurable bottles, and all that, than I can remember living before I breathed.
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A writing cook and a cooking writer must be bold at the desk as well as the stove.
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When a man is small, he loves and hates food with a ferocity which soon dims. At six years old his very bowels will heave when such a dish as creamed carrots or cold tapioca appear before him.
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Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat.
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When shall we live if not now?
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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.
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One martini is just right. Two martinis are too many. Three martinis are never enough.
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In general, I think, human beings are happiest at table when they are very young, very much in love or very alone.
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Write one good clean sentence and put a period at the end of it. Then write another one.
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The oyster leads a dreadful but exciting life. Indeed, his chance to live at all is slim, and if he should survive the arrows of his own outrageous fortune and in the two weeks of his carefree youth find a clean smooth place to fix on, the years afterwards are full of stress, passion, and danger.
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But if I must be alone, I refuse to be alone as if it were something weak and distasteful, like convalescence.
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Children and old people and the parents in between should be able to live together, in order to learn how to die with grace, together. And I fear that this is purely utopian fantasy.
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Most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak.
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All men are hungry. They always have been. They must eat, and when they deny themselves the pleasures of carrying out that need, they are cutting off part of their possible fullness, their natural realization of life, whether they are rich or poor.
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There's a communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine drunk.
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Too few of us, perhaps, feel that breaking of bread, the sharing of salt, the common dipping into one bowl, mean more than satisfaction of a need. We make such primal things as casual as tunes heard over a radio, forgetting the mystery and strength in both.
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