Eating Our Goodbyes

When a marriage ends, it doesn’t always imply a deficiency. At least, not a personal one.

Where to Begin

Whatever happens over the next four years, remember that you didn’t bring this abuse upon yourself. You don’t deserve it. If your needs aren’t being met, it’s not because you have too many needs.

Other States of Taste

I grew to love candies whose tactile experience was on par with their sweetness—in texture, but especially in residual effect: the burn of Fireballs, the pucker of Warheads, the numb of licorice.

Eat Life, Not Matter

My desire to live without violence aligned nicely with my desire to be thin—at least on the outside.

Those Were the Happiest Times

I’m giving myself a pass to eat what I want—my husband has cancer, after all. I find that it helps to keep a taste in my mouth.

The Close of the First Decade

Starvation became a stand-in for the pain of loneliness; a way to account for it, and also to punish myself for being unlovable.

Hunger Makes Me

A man’s appetite can be hearty, but a woman with an appetite—for food, for sex, for simple attention—is always voracious: she always overreaches, because it is not supposed to exist.

Of Salty Reviews and Silent Chefs

When New York’s Per Se was devastated by a recent Times review, why weren’t restaurateur Thomas Keller’s peers anywhere to be seen?

The Year in Kitchen Nightmares

Contempt for reality television is less a specific response than a herd sentiment. And yet, after so many hours under its spell, I feel like I’ve turned a corner: Gordon Ramsay is a genius.

Our Tarts, Ourselves

Butter tarts are strangely modest in their excess, a two-dollar decadence. But like that Canadian myth of innocent blandness, a butter tart’s surface hides something much more complex.