A. Never cook naked.
A. Writing--which means I'm happy a lot. Perfect? I don't know. But happy as in contented? You bet. I don't understand the Hollywood myth about the tortured writer. When I get a cup of tea and sit down at my desk, looking out at the New England woods beyond but also facing that blank screen on my computer, I'm as happy as I ever am. It also doesn't hurt to have a collie sleeping nearby. Or the person you love making lunch in the kitchen.
A. I blast Stravinsky, John Adams, and Steve Reich while I write. But also Lady Antebellum and Rascal Flatts. You can take the boy out of Texas, but not the Texas out of the boy.
A. Can't. Food writer, after all. If I had to eat only one thing, there would be no "rest of your days."
A. Paris for buzz, maybe Telluride for peace. Or Santa Fe. Oh, and Prince Edward Island. In the summer.