Proust had his madeleines; I am devastated by the scent of yeast bread rising.
Approaching the stove, she would don a voluminous apron, toss some meat on a platter, empty a skillet of its perfectly cooked a point vegetables, sprinkle a handful of chopped parsley over all, and then, like a proficient striptease artist, remove the apron, allowing it to fall to the floor with a shake of her hips.
There is no such thing as reconstituted lemon juice, only reconstituted taste buds.
Talking about food arouses certain individuals the way talking about sex does others.
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