Speaking of food, novelists and philosophers occasionally do just that.

The Hours by Michael Cunningham (1998)

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"The cake is less than she'd hoped it would be. She tries not to mind. It is only a cake, she tells herself. It is only a cake. She and Richie (her three-year-old son) have frosted it and she has, guiltily, invented something else for him to do while she squeezes yellow rosebuds onto the edges from a pastry tube and writes "Happy Birthday Dan" in white icing. She does not want the mess her son would make of it. Still, it has not turned out the way she pictured it; no, not at all. There's nothing really wrong with it, but she'd imagined something more. She'd imagined it larger, more remarkable. She'd hoped (she admits to herself) it would look more lush and beautiful, more wonderful. This cake she's produced feels small, not just in the physical sense but as an entity. It looks amateurish; handmade. She tells herself, It's fine.""To my way of thinking, the ideal breakfast is probably a glass of cold champagne and a perfectly ripe pear, perhaps with a spoonful of caviar eaten straight from the jar. This should be served with sunlight spreading across the table, or, better, outdoors on a balcony or flagstone patio, in the company of a single well-behaved honeybee and someone with whom you're madly in love. When you've finished the champagne, it's correct to go back, holding hands, to bed."




The Hours
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