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8
Comfort Me with Bite Work
“It says, madam,” the maître d'hôtel went on, “that you are over your limit.” He leaned down and
hissed menacingly. “Do you know what your limit is?”
—Ruth Reichl, Comfort Me with Apples: More Adventures at the Table , 2001
Making dinner for good friends was one of the greatest pleasures in our lives, a familiar re-
gimen for David and me. The anniversary of Dad's death had come and gone, I was turning
fifty, and habit again dictated our days. We were back to normal, but it no longer felt as com-
forting as it had. Time to bake the bread. Time to spread out the spread. I should have been
grateful, but I wasn't. Food and friends were essential but not sufficient.
I was no longer comforted with apples, with flagons of wine. I was sick of routine, at the
university and at home. I no longer wanted to pretend an undying devotion to academic life,
despite its many privileges, despite my love of teaching—and despite my worrying about how
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