A dark, heavy-blue February day pulled from me a sigh of quietened relief. So much artificial gyration had had its warrant sent out. Knowing itself to be a dead man, tracked straight to certainty, the ice block of conceit dropped itself dead in its tracks. What a beautiful sight! The love beast sang its own death song from out an already anguished mouth. And yes, the penetrating tone of the morbid howl was the one that burst an airtight catacomb. Now that the catacomb be banished such that no magic-claiming map may direct one thither . . .

Under various sedimentary names this restaurant, located on the fringe of Eastgate off 15-501, has been popular since it first opened in 1964. Actually Mr. Mariakakis had run the Marathon in the forties and early fifties, so the production itself is a Chapel Hill folkway. It has always been a favorite eating place, not only for the excellent Greek and Italian food, but also for the dramatic value of the clientele in terms of modern theater. It is this reviewer’s educated guess that the Kwikee, as it is known among the illumanati, has the most variegated caste since independence, liberation and fraternity.

An introductory note: I’m not a gourmet, a nutritionist, or a professional cook — just someone who’s tried to prepare food and feed people with love for about ten years. So don’t take my advice for more than homey suggestions or my recipes for Julia Child creations. I’m also a vegetarian (more about that in future columns) and a Capricorn (for those who are interested) and a well-loved wife and mother. This column is not meant to substitute for books such as Diet for a Small Planet or The Joy of Cooking, but I hope it will flavor your day with a fresh view on what we eat and what we become because of what we eat. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

I entered John Umstead Hospital (Butner), on, or around the 13th of March, 1975.

The air has cooled and somehow smells different. The garden has calmed down and the sun is setting further south. The kitchen is no longer the furnace it was in August and people like me get the urge to create some hot and hearty concoction to nourish those who sit down at our table.

I have a question (many as a matter of fact). I find that asking questions is the first activity of the awakened other. This other — the awakened stranger, the child of Self — is helpless and vulnerable as an infant curled, before the cord’s cut, lying on the curve of the mother’s belly. Once the cord is cut, the first breath (in or out? the question is enormous) having been delivered, the other is seeded, like a grain of sand in an oysterling, waiting for the moment when the flesh becomes aware and begins to create the pearl of wisdom.