Dear Reader,

What you are holding in your hands is not simply a cookbook. In these pages you’re not going to find the same tired old recipes with tedious instructions: add a “dab of this” and a “dash of that.” This won’t be merely a guide to roasting the perfect pork tenderloin, braising root vegetables fresh from the farmers’ market, or decorating your tablescape with fresh figs and absurd branches collected from your garden. On the contrary, dear reader, what you are holding is a book about eating. And not just regular eating but eating when you are on a mission, likely a solo mission, one filled with despair and self-loathing, and, most probably, in the dark.

Surely you already know how to make a lovely romantic dinner of sweetbreads in pear jus for that special someone, a sumptuous eight-course tasting menu for out-of-town guests, or poached lobster with truffles and seared foie gras for lunch when you’re feeling peckish. But what about all those other special moments? After all, who among us has not woken up after a night of drunken revelry only to have memories of their hideous behavior come crashing down like a freight train of humiliation? Who has not found oneself fired from a dead-end job, middle-aged and living with one’s parents? Who has not looked at their spouse and thought, “If he so much as brushes past me, I will rip his head off and drop-kick it across the kitchen like a soccer ball”? And, I ask you, who has not experienced explosive diarrhea in a public place or at their new boyfriend’s house? I know I have.

What is there for you to do in such moments? Sure, you could head for the nearest drive-thru or sit in a dark room muttering to yourself, as usual, or perhaps throw open the nearest window and contemplate the plunge. But wait, there is a better way: You can treat yourself right, with delicious, succulent, home-cooked comfort food.

Dear reader, I’d like you to think of this book not only as a collection of delectable treats, but as a hand to hold in those bleak moments—as your very own support group to remind you that you’re not alone. You are not alone. Yes, this is a call to arms for all emotional eaters: Stuff your face with something fantastically cheesy, salty, sugary, and soaked in booze. And cry. Don’t forget to cry. And when it’s over and your distended abdomen can hold no more? Look in the mirror and say aloud, “[insert your name here], it’s not your fault that you [insert fault here: binge drink, overeat, are a sex fanatic, accidentally got pregnant, et cetera].” Say it. Even if it is, technically, your fault.

 

 

 

With dearest sympathy,
Heather Whaley