The cook we had that year was a Polish woman named Anna Ostrovick, a summer cook. She was first-rate—a big, fat, hearty, industrious woman who took her work seriously. She liked to cook and to have the food she cooked appreciated and eaten, and whenever we saw her, she always urged us to eat. She cooked hot bread—crescents and brioches—for breakfast two or three times a week, and she would bring these into the dining room herself and say, "Eat, eat, eat!"Anna Ostrovick would have been pleased: Not two minutes after finishing this story, I found myself measuring out the ingredients for chocolate cake—which I will proceed to eat, eat, eat very shortly.
—"Goodbye, My Brother," John Cheever