Stanley Tucci Quotes

If you find that thing you love, it doesn't necessarily matter whether you do it well or not-you just need to do it.

when my parents are no longer alive, I will always be able to put their teachings and all the love they gave me into a bowl and present it to someone who sadly will never have had the good fortune of knowing them. But by eating that food, they will come to know them, if even just a little.

(Let’s face it, if men had to give birth, there would probably be only a total of about 47 people living on the face of the earth today as opposed to billions, and abortion clinics would be just another department in Walmart alongside auto parts, golf gear, and firearms.)

Actually," Stacy says, "Stanley Tucci is everyone's type.

It is said that Negronis are like breasts: “One is not enough, two is perfect, and three is just too many.” Today I am tempted to see what happens if I drink four.

That fucking timpano...

When fear grips the soul, it's amazing what one can achieve.

Losing a beloved family heirloom is a very real personal loss; they're things that cannot ever be replaced or re-created. But perhaps the most precious heirlooms are family recipes. Like a physical heirloom, they remind us from whom and where we came and give others, in a bite, the story of another people from another place and another time. Yet unlike a lost physical heirloom, recipes are a part of our history that can be re-created over and over again. The only way they can be lost is if we choose to lose them.

And anyway one is never drinking alone. Someone else is always drinking somewhere.

I don’t know why, but we Americans feel little obligation to preserve what once was because we choose to see it as less than what is or what could be. Like children and adolescents, we have not yet learned that the present isn’t the only thing.

Tragically it is indeed the goddamn gluten that makes the pasta taste so good

I have chosen to write about this painfully ironic experience because my illness and the brutal side effects of the treatment caused me to realize that food was not just a huge part of my life; it basically was my life. Food at once grounded me and took me to other places. It comforted me and challenged me. It was part of the fabric that made up my creative self and my domestic self. It allowed me to express my love for the people I love and make connections with new people I might come to love.

Yes, hope is hard to find, but it can often be found at the table. And tables are easy to build.

It allows for free personal expression like painting, musical composition or writing and yet fulfils a most practical need: the need to eat. Edible art. What could be better?

Now, I am not one who is necessarily drawn to the Michelin star. Often I find that many of the restaurants that have earned this coveted award are a bit fussy, to say the least, and I’ve left a few of them completely famished, as I have never found pretentiousness very filling.

But perhaps the most precious heirlooms are family recipes. Like a physical heirloom, they remind us from whom and where we came and give others, in a bite, the story of another people from another place and another time.

I don’t know why, but I have always been drawn to northern climes much more so than to warmer parts of the world. I find the redundant sunshine of Southern California mind numbing, the humidity of the American South loathsome, and the tropics make me want to curl up into a ball and die before I drown in my own sweat.

Cooking for her is at once a creative outlet and a way of feeding the family well.

Everyone is a murdered... All it takes is a good reason and a bad day.

Edible

However, food is just there. A beautiful, varied thing waiting to bring satiety and solace and offer hope while death and arithmetic haunt me.

In so many attempts to save time, so many other things are wasted.

I am hardly saying anything new by stating that our links to what we eat have practically disappeared beneath sheets of plastic wrap. But what are also disappearing are the wonderful, vital human connections we’re able to make when we buy something we love to eat from someone who loves to sell it, who bought it from someone who loves to grow, catch, or raise it. Whether we know it or not, great comfort is found in these relationships, and they are very much a part of what solidifies a community.

To me, eating well is not just about what tastes good but about the connections that are made through the food itself. I am hardly saying anything new by stating that our links to what we eat have practically disappeared beneath sheets of plastic wrap. But what are also disappearing are the wonderful, vital human connections we’re able to make when we buy something we love to eat from someone who loves to sell it, who bought it from someone who loves to grow, catch, or raise it. Whether we know it or not, great comfort is found in these relationships, and they are very much a part of what solidifies a community.

Murder is rarely an expression of indifference.

(Aldo recommends Cav. Giuseppe Cocco spaghetti, which can be easily found online)

Home-cooked food strengthens our bonds when we are together, keeps us connected when we are apart, and sustains the memory of us when we have passed away.

The third is that we die and find that death is a table resplendently set with an extraordinary meal for us and all those we've ever loved to share for the rest of eternity

However, over the years, in many restaurants, the sublimely simple combination of butter and cheese has been altered to satisfy American palates. Cream has crept its way in (unnecessary), as well as chicken (yuck), broccoli (why?), and turkey (really? Fuck off). At any rate, fettucini Alfredo was basically all I ate for the entire summer, and as a college student, I thought it was just dandy.

At any rate, those of us lucky enough to be present swelled with pride as the cloudy purple liquor was carried upstairs to the table in its decanter, poured into juice glasses, toasted with, and drunk heartily. Was it the best wine in the world? No. Was it the worst? Very close. Did it matter? No. It was part of my grandfather, whom we adored, and that made it the sweetest liquid ever to pass our lips.

4:45 p.m. GMT I acquiesce and make a Negroni. It is said that Negronis are like breasts: “One is not enough, two is perfect, and three is just too many.” Today I am tempted to see what happens if I drink four.

Tomato Salad — SERVES 4 — 8 small ripe tomatoes (quartered or halved, depending upon their size) 1 garlic clove, halved A glug of EVOO A small handful of basil leaves, torn A splash of red wine vinegar (optional) Coarse salt Place the cut tomatoes in a bowl with the garlic, olive oil, basil, and vinegar, if using. Toss. Salt a few minutes before serving. (Adding it too soon will draw the water out of the tomatoes and dilute the dish.)

Although I pride myself on being able to handle my liquor, due to the absence of ice cubes and their diluting effects on the alcohol, one of these can be enough for me to ask the waiter if he would discreetly remind me of my own name.

Others argue that the lack of salt in Florentine bread is because unsalted bread lasts longer, or it’s the result of an innate or inherited Tuscan parsimony stemming from a time when Italy was divided into city-states and wars were fought over necessary and coveted commodities such as salt, which was very dear. When we lived in Florence we never could get used to the unsalted bread, which we found dry and tasteless. I must confess that sometimes I think the best bread in Italy is in France.

The corn on the cob was boiled for about six minutes, placed on a large platter, and brought steaming hot to the table. Greedy hands then grabbed hot ears. But the buttering of the corn...well, it wasn't just "put knife into butter, put butter on corn with knife." No. No. Good God. No.

No, for some unknown reason, I feel more at home in the Italian Alps than I do in the brutal heat of Puglia. I like brisk autumns, snowy winters, rainy springs, and temperate summers. The change of seasons allows for a change in one’s wardrobe (I’m sartorially obsessed) and, most important, one’s diet. A boeuf carbonnade tastes a thousand times better in the last days of autumn than when it’s eighty degrees and the sun is shining. An Armagnac is the perfect complement to a snowy night by the fire but not to an August beach outing, just as a crisp Orvieto served with spaghetti con vongole is ideal “al fresco” on a sunny summer afternoon but not nearly as satisfying when eaten indoors on a cold winter’s night. One thing feeds the other. (Pun intended.) So a visit to Iceland to escape the gloom of what is known in London as “winter” was an exciting prospect. However, my greatest concern, as you can probably guess, if you’re still reading this, was the food.

In those moments it was clear to me that someday, when my parents are no longer alive, I will always be able to put their teachings and all the love they gave me into a bowl and present it to someone who sadly will never have had the good fortune of knowing them. But by eating that food, they will come to know them, if even just a little.

The third Friday favourite was fried meatballs. This was a meal my parents would make together, my mother preparing the meatball mixture, rolling them, and my father frying them slowly in olive oil. […] The work and school week had ended, and a weekend spent with friends and the inevitable Friday or Saturday night sleepover lay ahead for me and my sisters, while my parents looked forward to dinner parties at home or away.

I am a soup lover. To me soup may be the greatest culinary invention. It can be made with two ingredients or two hundred twenty-two ingredients. It can be served hot or cold. It can be cooked fast or slow. It can be eaten for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. It can be vegetarian, vegan, paleo, pescatarian, or carnivorian. It can be simple or complex. It comforts, it soothes, it refreshes, and it restores. Soup is life in a pot.

I must admit that years ago I never thought that my passion and interest in food would come close to eclipsing how I felt about my chosen profession. Acting, directing, cinema and the theatre had always defined me. But after my diagnosis I discovered that eating, drinking, the kitchen and the table now play those roles. Food not only feeds me, it enriches me. All of me. Mind, body and soul. It is nothing more than everything.

Many an actor in many a makeup chair has gobbled down many a breakfast as a poor makeup artist tries to daub foundation on a masticating jaw and bobbing Adam’s apple while politely ignoring the sulfurous stench of the actor’s hard-boiled eggs. It is also in the makeup trailer, an oasis of sorts for actors, where one can be assured of getting the best cup of coffee on set, because most makeup artists outfit them with good coffeemakers.

America held the promise of jobs, for both men and women, outside of the home, yet for many of them this did not mean that the agricultural and manual skills that were basically part of their DNA would no longer be used after they settled down in a new country. In fact, for a great many the mindset never changed. If you could grow it, raise it, hunt it, cultivate it, build it, or repair it yourself, why buy it or pay someone else to do it?

I was flabbergasted as it was a distant scream from any catering I had experienced on any film set. I couldn’t help but stare in disbelief at the cast and crew eating together inside a truck so elegantly appointed, while gay Paree buzzed away around us. The whole thing was so wonderful, civilized, and strange that there is a part of me that thinks perhaps I may have just dreamed it all. If so, I’d like to dream it again on every film I make from now on.

The Martini No one really knows the true origins of the drink that E. B. White called “the elixir of quietude.” Some say a bartender invented it at the end of the 1800s in the town of Martinez, California. Others say other things. Too many people say too many things and I wish they’d stop. In the end it doesn’t really matter. The only thing that matters is that the Martini exists. And to me it matters a great deal that it exists in its driest form. (The word “Martini” will always be capitalized within these pages.)

A piece of homemade bread was buttered and then used to slather the salted ear of corn, thus, in true Italian fashion, creating two dishes out of one, the ear of corn being the first dish and the homemade bread (now saturated with the melted butter, salt, and sweetness from the buttered kernels) being the second. This may have been the single most delicious part of an already delicious meal. An act so simple it’s almost stupid. But no one I know does it, except my family. And, as far as I know, they are not simple or stupid.

To that point, I remember when visiting my parents’ years later, I happened to catch an old episode of The French Chef. Because my interest in food had grown, I watched it with even more attentiveness than I had when I was young. But on this particular occasion, I was taken aback by my reaction when Mrs Child bid US her ubiquitous farewell, ‘This is Julia Child, bon appétit!’ My eyes suddenly welded up and I had to stop myself from crying: why was I suddenly experiencing a powerful rush of emotion because a black and white moving image of a chef was saying goodbye to me in French? After a few moments, I realised that I was moved by Mrs Child not only because she brought back happy boyhood memories of spending time with my mom but also because Julia herself was so genuinely happy to be doing what she was doing. I saw in that moment the embodiment of what I, and so many of us, aspire to. To spend your life doing what you love and doing it well. To achieve this is a rare thing, but for those who can, real joy is theirs, as is the ability to bring that joy to others through their chosen vacation.

con Zucchine alla Nerano — SERVES 4 — About 16fl oz sunflower oil or vegetable oil, or, if you choose, olive oil 8 to 10 small zucchine (courgettes) 75g chopped fresh basil Sea salt to taste Extra virgin olive oil 500g spaghetti 200g grated Parmigiano-Reggiano • Put the sunflower oil in a large pot and bring to a low boil over medium-high heat. • Slice the zucchine into thin rounds and fry in the oil until they are golden brown. Remove and set aside on paper towels. • Sprinkle with basil and salt. • Transfer to a bowl and drizzle liberally with olive oil. • Boil the pasta until al dente and strain, reserving about two cupfuls of the pasta water. • Place the cooked pasta in a large pan or pot over low heat along with the zucchine mixture and combine gently. Add the pasta water, a little at a time, to create a creamy texture. You may not use all of the pasta water. Now add some of the Parmigiano to the mixture and continue to combine by stirring gently and tossing. When the mixture has a slight creaminess, remove from the stove and serve immediately. Note: The zucchine mixture can be refrigerated for about 5 days for use at a later date. Best to bring it to room temperature before using.

Pizzoccheri — SERVES 4 TO 6 — 1 medium Savoy cabbage A big, sexy slab of Valtellina cheese, or something similar, like fontina 3 large yellow potatoes A fuck of a lot of butter 4 large garlic cloves 1 pound pizzoccheri Extra-virgin olive oil 2 handfuls grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, or Bitto (if available and you can afford it) Salt Remove and discard any tough outer leaves from the cabbage and roughly chop it into long pieces. Thinly cut about 15 pieces of Valtellina cheese and also grate about 3 cups. Set aside. Preheat the oven to 325°F. Peel and dice the potatoes and boil until cooked but still firm, about 15 minutes or so. Halfway through boiling, add the cabbage to the potatoes. When the potatoes and cabbage are cooked, drain them and set them aside. In a large, deep frying pan over low heat, melt the fuckload of butter. Gently crush (if that’s even possible) the garlic cloves, place them in the pan, and cook until they soften and the butter has melted but not turned brown. Boil the pizzoccheri until al dente and drain, reserving about 2 cups of the water. Return the pizzoccheri to the pot and drizzle them with a little olive oil or some butter so they don’t stick together. Pour a little of the garlic butter into a baking dish and begin to layer the ingredients, starting with the pizzoccheri, then the cabbage, then the potatoes, then both cheeses, drizzling more garlic butter over the whole mixture after each layer, adding a bit of the reserved pasta water to ensure it doesn’t get too thick but making sure it doesn’t get too watery. You may need only a cup. Top the final layer with a drizzle of olive oil and more grated cheese. Cover with foil and bake for about 15 minutes or so. Remove the foil and return to the oven until the top has a slight crisp. Salt to taste. Serve it and eat it and drink a lot of wine with it and think about how much you deserve it after you burned off so many

acquiesce and make a Negroni. It is said that Negronis are like breasts: “One is not enough, two is perfect, and three is just too many.

Self loathing is clarity and clarity is useful.

When fear grips the soul, it’s amazing what one can achieve.

Spaghetti con Zucchine alla Nerano — SERVES 4 — About ½ quart sunflower oil or vegetable oil, or, if you choose, olive oil 8 to 10 small zucchine 1 ½ cups chopped fresh basil Sea salt to taste Extra-virgin olive oil 1 pound spaghetti 3 cups grated Parmigiano-Reggiano Put the sunflower oil in a large pot and bring to a low boil over medium-high heat. Slice the zucchine into thin rounds and fry in the oil until it is golden brown. Remove and set aside on paper towels. Sprinkle with the basil and the salt to taste. Transfer to a bowl and drizzle liberally with olive oil. Boil the pasta until al dente and strain, reserving about 2 cups of the pasta water. Place the cooked pasta in a large pan or pot over low heat along with the zucchine mixture and combine gently. Add the pasta water, a little at a time, to create a creamy texture. You may not use all of the pasta water. Now add some of the Parmigiano to the mixture and continue to combine by stirring gently and tossing. When the mixture has a slight creaminess, remove from the stove and serve immediately.

For me and some of the more liberal family members, patriotism seemed to have been monopolized by those with hawkish views of how to right that terrible wrong and who waved the American flag more like a weapon than a symbol of freedom, acceptance, and possibility.

After helping with a bit of homework, I left them with our nanny and scooted off to Matteo’s parent-teacher conferences alone as Felicity was ostensibly out at a “book launch.” (I hate to say anything, but she has more launches than Cape Canaveral.)

Felicity was out at a “retirement dinner.” I didn’t know sex clubs hosted those.

That evening Felicity sautéed some scallops, but they didn’t really sear because the pan had not gotten hot enough, which was my fault because I had reduced the heat, as the butter was about to burn, and didn’t communicate that. They didn’t work out as well as she had hoped.

After more of this redundant lunacy, Felicity breezed downstairs beautifully made up, coiffed, and smelling of jasmine or something all too alluring, kissed the kids, and muttered a brisk goodbye that I just barely heard over the sound of my scouring. She obviously must have forgotten that I was to rub shoulders with royalty this morning, because her only words to me were, “Can you strain that broth I made last night?” As the front door slammed I prayed for her train to be delayed.

Upon her arrival, she was delighted to see the children of course, smothered them with hugs and kisses, cursorily pecked me on the cheek, and started to eat.

We spent the day at the house with the architect, the engineer, the landscapers. I am very excited about the prospect of creating a home where we can spend time together as a family, where friends and extended family can come for long weekends, where I can build an art studio and an auxiliary kitchen in which to film a cooking show that has been percolating in my hungry mind for a while now, where we can plant a vegetable garden and a small orchard and put the benefits of them to good use every season, where my daughters, or sons, can get married, where Felicity can bring her lover(s), where my proctologist(s) can visit, and where our grandchildren can spend time with their cousins for years to come when I am no longer here.

Jilly was as gracious as ever, still standing and chatting vivaciously when we departed, which is a miracle for someone who has basically lived on mayonnaise and champagne for eighty-six years.

In the children’s rucksacks were water bottles tucked into side pockets designed specifically for water bottles. Before we placed them in the gray bins, I asked Felicity if they were empty, and she told me they indeed were. She is not one to lie. At least about such things.

I have traveled endlessly around the world for the last three years, been tested countless times, felt unwell many times, but never tested positive, and yet this is the one time I test positive?!? This trip, to visit my aging parents so I can spend some quality time with them in the winter of their years! Really!?! Felicity calmed me down as usual. We called my parents and alerted them. Two days later we got a call that my father was in the hospital with Covid and pneumonia in one lung. They put him on intravenous antibiotics. By the next day he was a bit better, but then they removed the IV and he was told that the pneumonia was Covid induced and that the antibiotics would not work. That was confusing. But they gave him remdesivir to treat the virus. I am very nervous about his condition, especially since I am undoubtedly the one who gave him the virus.

have tested negative. My sense of taste and smell are returning, albeit slowly. The last time this happened (just before the first lockdown I thought I had a flu for about a day and a half and then we realized it was most likely Covid), they disappeared for about five days and then slowly crept their way back. I am relieved for the obvious reasons I stated before. Unfortunately, my mother is not feeling very well and has just tested positive.

My father is back home from the hospital, completely recovered and in good form, as they say. My mother is much better as well and says she feels like she just has a cold. I am thankful. We cannot prove that I gave my parents the dreaded virus, but considering the fact that I met hundreds of people in New York before visiting them, coupled with my flulike symptoms, it is more than likely that I was the culprit. Had they been compromised for the long term or worse (died), how could I have ever forgiven myself? I don’t want to think of it because I have thought of it too often this last week. Anyway, all is well, and my sister Gina is there looking after them brilliantly but dreading she will catch it herself. Fingers crossed her good deed goes unpunished.

We were in bed early as Felicity has to leave tomorrow morning for the Cotswolds to “work,” and Matteo is having his tonsils out and we wanted him to get a good night’s rest.

How do you know her type?” I ask. “Her type could be Stanley Tucci for all we know.” “Actually,” Stacy says, “Stanley Tucci is everyone’s type.” I nod in solidarity. “Amen.

Did you just use the phrase gird your loins? What are you, eighty?” “For your information, Stanley Tucci’s character uses it in The Devil Wears Prada, and both Stanley and the movie are amazing.” “Yeah, and how old is the amazing Stanley?” “I don’t appreciate the snark, especially considering the free, in-depth tour I just gave you.” “It was a fifteen-minute walk, Red.

The little ones eat their meal, which at times requires us to coax, plead or threaten, spewing old chestnuts such as, ‘There will be no dessert for you, young man,’ and ‘Do you think dragons leave food on their plates?’ ‘Dragons don’t use plates.’ ‘I know they don’t use plates, I know that. I’m just saying … could you please just finish it.’ After their meal is eaten, sort of, the little ones are allowed to watch a bit of television. Dragons for him, Peppa Pig for her. (There is no question that my wife and I, along with many parents, wish the creators of that irritating animated swine a slow death, but they are so rich they have probably purchased immortality. And yet at the same time said pig allows us respite for half an hour or so every day. May God bless those creators.) While the little kids are immersed, I begin to make culinary preparations for the next ‘sitting’. TV time has ended, and we usher the little ones to bed. As usual the two-year old is screaming between gulps of her bottle because she has had to leave her beloved pink porcine pal. After settling her into her cot, we then take turns reading about dragons to the five-year-old, who proceeds to tell us he’s hungry, so we begrudgingly make him some toast and say something like, ‘I told you to eat your dinner. This is the last time.’ And it is. Until tomorrow.

I have chosen to write about this painfully ironic experience because my illness and the brutal side effects of the treatment caused me to realise that food was not just a huge part of my life; it basically was my life. Food at once grounded me and took me to other places. It comforted me and challenged me. It was part of the fabric that made to my creative self and my domestic self. It allowed me to express my love for the people I love and make connections with new people I might come to love.

Until I began to fathom my deep emotional connections with food, I had always thought that the ceremonial eating of the communion wafer, a symbol for the body of Christ, was a strange, almost barbaric, pagan ritual. However, now it may well be the only aspect of Catholicism that makes any sense to me at all. If you love someone, you just want them inside you. (I know what you’re thinking, but let it go.) How many parents hug and kiss their kids and say, ‘I love you so much I just want to eat you up!’ Love can and does enter through the mouth.

A piece of homemade bread was buttered and then used to slather the salted ear of corn, thus, in true Italian fashion, creating two dishes out of one, the ear of corn being the first dish and the homemade bread (now saturated with the melted butter, salt, and sweetness from the buttered kernels) being the second.

I like to have a Martini, / Two at the very most. / After three, I’m under the table, / After four, I’m under my host.

It is the connection between customer and purveyor that makes our interactions stronger, to me eating well is not just about what tastes good but about the connections that are made through the food itself. I am hardly saying anything new by stating that our links to food have practically disappeared between sheets of plastic wrap but what are also disappearing are the wonderful vital human connections that we make when we buy something we love to eat from someone who loves to sell it, who bought it from someone who loves to grow it, catch it, or raise it. Whether we know it or not, great comfort is found in these relationships and they are very much a part of what solidifies a community.

But perhaps the most precious heirlooms are family recipes. Like a physical heirloom, they remind us from whom and where we came and give others, in a bite, the story of another people from another place and another time. Yet unlike a lost physical heirloom, recipes are a part of our history that can be re-created over and over again. The only way they can be lost is if we choose to lose them.

(I know the war was a long time ago, but I never quite know how to celebrate that victorious day here without feeling like I’m rubbing it in some Brit’s face

Was it the best wine in the world? No. Was it the worst? Very close. Did it matter? No. It was part of my grandfather, whom we adored, and that made it the sweetest liquid ever to pass our lips. *This made me think of my grandma and her homemade wine. The wine was always too sweet, but it didn't really matter.

Sauté the onions with a little olive oil, a smashed garlic clove, white wine, and a little sugar and let them cook down slowly. Transfer to a bowl and set aside. Sear the chops in a little butter and oil for a few minutes on either side, then return the onions to the pan. Add a bay leaf, a sprig of thyme, a bit of rosemary, some chicken stock, and more wine. Turn down the heat, cover it, and let it cook for about 10 minutes.

large red onions, thinly sliced, then roughly chopped 8 small anchovies, rinsed and finely chopped Extra-virgin olive oil Butter 6 salted, dried capers, roughly chopped Chicken or vegetable stock 9 ounces spaghetti Breadcrumbs and chopped parsley, for serving In a large pan over medium heat, cook the onions and anchovies in a glug of olive oil and a knob of butter until soft, without letting them brown. Add the capers. Add a couple of ladlefuls (about 2 cups) chicken or vegetable stock and cook for 5 to 10 minutes. Meanwhile, boil the spaghetti until al dente. Strain the pasta, reserving a bit of pasta water. Add the pasta and a splash of pasta water to the mixture in the pan. Add a bit more butter and olive oil and toss together. Serve in a bowl. Sprinkle with a handful of breadcrumbs and chopped parsley.

2 extra-large saucepans (a sixteen-inch saucepan and a fourteen-inch Stanley Pan)

Olive oil: Two 1-quart bottles of regular, Filippo Berio, and one 5-quart bottle of our favorite extra-virgin that we use every day, Il Cavallino, from Tuscany

But in the end, I really just want what every parent wants, which is for them to feel proud of me.

The slower one becomes, the faster time moves. How? Why? Is it because we finally understand time and are now able to gauge how long we've got left?

I make this just about every week. Part of the beauty of a certain dish or a meal is that it is ephemeral. It can be repeated but it will never be the same. Like the performance of a play. The lines and staging will be the same, but the result will always be a little different. Always the same but different.

We’re actors. We’re the opposite of people.” He’s not wrong.

When I was that age, I was wandering around Manhattan hoping someone might give me the opportunity to practice the noble vocation for which I had trained so hard, pretending to be someone else. Tragic when you think about it, even without the

And after this is over? Do I retire to that lovely villa in Aix-en-Provence that I saw in the magazine? Or the hilltop estate in Tuscany that was in that foodie show with the adorable Stanley Tucci?

I am a soup lover. To me soup may be the greatest culinary invention. It can be made with two ingredients or two hundred twenty-two ingredients. It can be served hot or cold. It can be cooked fast or slow. It can be eaten for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. It can be vegetarian, vegan, paleo, pescatarian, or carnivorian. It can be simple or complex. It comforts, it soothes, it refreshes, and it restores. Soup is life in a pot.

It was evident that the chef was vying for some kind of recognition from the entities that give recognition to chefs. I find this unfortunate. In film and theater, one can feel an actor trying too hard... They are showing us how well they are acting, instead of simply just being. They believe that this behavior will garner them awards, and unfortunately sometimes it does. But no person should ever do what they do to win awards, because their work will reek of desperation and therefore never ring true. Or, in the case of a chef, taste good.

Manhattan. The city. New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice.

Quite simply, I am drawn to the past more than I am the future... I am physical kinesthetic, tactile. Through touch, I take in information... I want to dig a hole in the earth and find the remains of something that was once something of importance, no matter how minor, to someone many years ago and imagine what their life was like.

It's like the second performance of a play that's gone well on opening night. Any attempt to repeat the same performance fails dismally because it's an idea of a memory

And he was right; the eggs did taste better. Everything does when it's cooked outside. Why is that?

What’s important is they learn to love home cooking. Strengthens our bounds when we are together. Keeps us connected when we are apart. Sustains the memory of us when we’ve passed away.

I am a soup lover... It can be simple or complex. It comforts, it soothes, it refreshes, and it restores. Soup is life in a pot.

Being a part of a group of strangers from all over the globe, brought together by food, our voices raised in song beneath the fading splendor of sixteenth-century frescoes on a cold Roman night, had a profound emotional effect on all three of us... I didn't want the singing to end, but like all good things, it did because it had to.

Soon they realize that it wasn't the stone that made the soup so delicious, but the ingredients they all shared to make it. After this, they are no longer miserable and parsimonious, but happy and generous... I think it's one of the best stories about how man treats his fellow man... But it's also about how food not only brings people together but makes life better.

Eating a simple dish gives one clarity. Pasta with butter and cheese laughs in the face of our complex lives.

Movement is life affirming and life extending

Never give up. Especially when it comes to soup.

The place was packed with shoppers buying books for Christmas presents, which was a reassuring and literal sign that literature is indeed a gift.