Ah, you know me, I never rest. A book can whisper a flavor into my ear, like in *The Old Man and the Sea* I tasted the salt of the sea in a simple bouillabaisse, and in *Moby‑Dick* I found the audacity of the white whale in a bold, smoky chorizo. When I read *The Great Gatsby*, the decadence of the party gave me the idea for a champagne‑infused éclair. Stories are just recipes for the mind, and I translate their words into heat, aroma, and texture.

I’d choose a sun‑lit alcove behind the history volumes—soft light, quiet, no one buzzing. That way I can hear the page turning, let the scent of ink mingle with the scent of my stove, and I can truly taste the story before I even touch the ingredients.