My husband opened the refrigerator door. Sliced eclairs were stacked on every shelf. "I'll never eat another eclair as long as I live," he said. I gave most of the eclairs to friends, to staff, and to the soup kitchen. But I kept one gargantuan loaf as proof that cooking helps me to write. I pulled out the stubborn manuscripts, which to date had resistered me successfully, and suddenly the words spilled out of my pen and onto the yellow pad. A few days after my husband had said he never wanted to see another eclair, I offered him a piece of strawberry shortcake. He smiled widely and enjoyed it immensely. He simply did not recognize the old eclair smothered with strawberries and whipped cream.