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.

That’s the spot I’ll take, thank you. The quiet hum will keep me focused and the warm light will let the flavors bloom right in front of me. I’ll bring my ingredients and let the ink scent mingle with the aroma of simmering broth.