“Why are they doing that?” his mother said, frowning at her grandsons. The boys were sorting the casserole into piles on their plates.“Doing what?” Eve asked.“Why aren’t they eating their food?”“They don’t like it when things touch,” Eve said.“What things?” his mother asked.“Their food. They don’t like it when different foods touch or mix together.”“How do you serve dinner, in ice cube trays?”

“What is that?"..."Why do you smell like that?"..."Smell like what?""You smell delicious."..."You smell like food. Why do you smell like food?”

“Someone once asked Mother Teresa how she dealt with world poverty. Do you know what she said? 'You do the thing that's in front of you.”

“Sir,” James asked, “what are we going to do?”“We’re going to look for water,” said Alf.“And food?” said Tubby Ted.“Water first,” said Alf. “We can go days without food.”“We can what?” Tubby Ted shouted.”

“Why don't you go on, Mother dear?' he asked. 'It's such nonsense!' said his mother. 'I believe it would go on for ever.' 'That's just what it did,' said Diamond.' 'What did?' she asked.' 'Why, the river. That's almost the very tune it used to sing.”

“We always ate with gusto...It would have offended the cook if we had nibbled or picked...Our mothers and zie [aunties] didn't inquire as to the states of our bellies; they just put the food on our plates.'You only ask sick people if they're hungry,' my mother said. 'Everyone else must eat, eat!'But when Italians say 'Mangia! Mangia!' they're not just talking about food. They're trying to get you to stay with them, to sit by them at the table for as long as possible. The meals that my family ate together- the many courses, the time in between at the table or on the mountain by the sea, the hours spent talking loudly and passionately and unyieldingly and laughing hysterically the way Neapolitans do- were designed to prolong our time together; the food was, of course, meant to nourish us, but it was also meant to satisfy, in some deeper way, our endless hunger for one another.”