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It is impossible to think of any good meal, no matter how plain or elegant, without soup or bread in it

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
Matter
Meal
Good
Elegant
Think
Soup
Thinking
Plain
Meals
Bread
Impossible
Without

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The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight
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At present, I myself do not know of any local witches or warlocks, but there are several people who seem to have an uncanny power over food.
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... most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak. What is more, they need a steak. Preferably they need it rare, grilled, heavily salted, for that way it is most easily digested, and most quickly turned into the glandular whip their tired adrenals cry for.
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. . . 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.
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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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I believe that one of the most dignified ways we are capable of, to assert and then reassert our dignity in the face of poverty and war's fears and pains, is to nourish ourselves with all possible skill, delicacy, and ever-increasing enjoyment.
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It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others.
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death ... so seldom happens nowadays in the awesome quiet of a familiar chamber. Most of us die violently, thanks to the advance of science and warfare. If by chance we are meant to end life in our beds, we are whisked like pox victims to the nearest hospital, where we are kept as alone and unaware as possible of the approach of disintegration.
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... living out of sight of any shore does rich and powerfully strange things to humans.
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Most bereaved souls crave nourishment more tangible than prayers: they want a steak.
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I like old people when they have aged well.
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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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For anyone addicted to reading commonplace books . . . finding a good new one is much like enduring a familiar recurrence of malaria, with fever, fits of shaking, strange dreams . . . .
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Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken.
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It is easy to think of potatoes, and fortunately for men who have not much money it is easy to think of them with a certain safety. Potatoes are one of the last things to disappear, in times of war, which is probably why they should not be forgotten in times of peace.
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There is no chiropractic treatment, no Yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel, that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread.
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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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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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Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat.
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I was horribly self-conscious I wanted everybody to look at me and think me the most fascinating creature in the world, and yet I died a small hideous death if I saw even one person throw a casual glance at me.
M. F. K. Fisher