The Woman Who Loves to Cook If asked, she’d say, It’s tactile: Chopping. Digging my thumbs into the ripe tomato pulp, or under the slippery skin of chicken breast to loosen it. Hands slick with oil and herbs from working meat chunks deep in marinade, she’d say, I like to fit the dripping pieces neatly in the corners of the Pyrex baking dish. Or she might say, it’s for the mother-smell of garlic and grilled lamb that hangs all evening in the work-warmed air. As she tastes and stirs, waves her spoon and laughs, offers more wine and second helpings, she won’t admit, I want to stoke your hunger with my work, then feed you with myself.

By Florence Nash