i've spent hours crouched on my hands and knees at a yard sale lawn in lafayette, combing through tattered silver for just the right serving spoon. i've mailed back chipped bowls to le cordon bleu and in the same breath given an audible "whoop" when i've found the imperfect blue plate that will hold the walnut scones with homemade peach jam, that i don't yet have the recipe for or know how to make. i've shut down bookstores many a night pawing through french cookbooks, silently whimpering at the elizabeth davies omelette technique. i've withstood the whispers about me at the farmer's markets, "she's the girl who just keeps turning the tomatoes over and over...and over." i own 52 aprons and there are some that i still refuse to wash, lest the aroma on them be erased forever. i wanted to name harper, quince: a bitter fruit that, when prepared carefully, yields a sweetness unlike any other. i once fainted by plexing over a seating chart for my birthday dinner.
i live and breathe, rise and fall, by the dinner party. it means more to me than anything in the world.
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