Digression! food/poetry/love

Just a few chapters into Bill Buford's wonderful book, "Heat", in which the author finds himself as a non-piad kitchen "slave" in my pal Mario Batali's Baboo restaurant. Here's my favorite passage thus far:

A dish was a failure because it hadn't been cooked wiith love. A dish was a success because the love was so obvious. If you're cooking with love, every plate is a unique event -- you never allow yourself to forget that a person is waiting to eat it: your food, made with your hands, arranged with your fingers, tasted with your tongue.

After reading a friend's post ("A fine thought", directly below) I was immediately taken to the last coupla lines in one of my favorite Ray Carver poems called "Happiness". I don't know why, really, except perhaps to snap me back into quick focus and away from the ugliness. Thanks, Paul.

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.