When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.

I am more modest now, but I still think that one of the pleasantest of all emotions is to know that I, I with my brain and my hands, have nourished my beloved few, that I have concocted a stew or a story, a rarity or a plain dish, to sustain them truly against the hungers of the world.

Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken.