When I was around six, my mom’s good friend was a writer of cookbooks. Health-food cookbooks. Seventies-era health food. Fructose. Carob. Maple leaves and bark. There was a photo on the back cover of one of these books with the cook, Mary Ann, and her two children, a little younger than me, licking their fingers over a mixing bowl, all smiles. I envied these children, these rosy-cheeked cherubs who loved food that was good for you while I was folding my little hands on my green gingham bedspread in my room, praying for a box of chocolates so big I could sit inside of it when I was done.