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

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
Steak
Nourishment
Tangible
Crave
Prayers
Souls
Prayer
Bereaved
Soul
Bereavement

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One martini is just right. Two martinis are too many. Three martinis are never enough.
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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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...for me there is too little of life to spend most of it forcing myself into detachment from it.
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I like old people when they have aged well. And old houses with an accumulation of sweet honest living in them are good. And the timelessness that only the passing of Time itself can give to objects both inside and outside the spirit is a continuing reassurance.
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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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Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.
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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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Write one good clean sentence and put a period at the end of it. Then write another one.
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The things men come to eat when they are alone are, I suppose, not much stranger than the men themselves.... A writer years ago told me of living for five months on hen mash.
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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.
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Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat.
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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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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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. . . 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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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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Cooks must feed their egos as well as their customers.
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Salad is roughage and a French idea.
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old age is more bearable if it can be helped by an early acceptance of being loved and of loving.
M. F. K. Fisher