I could regale you with all sorts of humorous anecdotes about Mom and her gastronomic goofeyness, of the butterless blackened toast every morning long before blackened anything was in vogue, of her crying over Thanksgiving dinner because she couldn't get the can of Armour Star Ham open, or of the year we shopped for Christmas dinner at the 7-Eleven because it hadn't occurred to her to get any supplies in for the holidays. I started cooking at age ten just to survive. But this isn't a story about Mom. It's about Me, so butt out, Mom! Yes…so…food…edibles.

When I'm not thinking of how they look, feel, smell, and taste, I'm buying them, chopping, peeling, squeezing, pounding, sizzling, sautéing, stewing - you get the idea - all of that even before the eating part. I'm not a glutton or anything, I eat more healthfully than most, but I admit to getting overly involved in the subject at times.

My former husband, who was French and from whom I learned the fine art of dining, used to joke that his food bills were down 90% once he stopped feeding me. And my boyfriend after him, who was from east 97th street, swore he had the magic cure for my depressions, "I just take her down to the Korean market and say, 'knock yourself out, Baby' - works every time". It's true. My idea of heaven is a four hour meal with great conversation. So now you know.

I guess I'd also have to say I have a "doctor thing". Here there is no question of a past life, this is an inheritance from my mother. (Her again!) She's of solid, no- nonsense Midwestern stock. She believes doctors are arrogant, condescending ego maniacs who think any approach to healing other than the hunt-it-down, cut-it-out, and kill it approach is for fools who would buy snake oil off a gypsy wagon. She has as much, or more contempt for them as she believes they have for her. I confess to carrying a somewhat tempered version of this opinion, and probably because life is what you believe it to be, this opinion has pretty much proven to be true for me.