I absolutely love and hate reading flighty, light-hearted novels filled liberally with descriptions of food. Because on one hand I can picture the lavish displays but on the other hand, I feel so... hungry. Like, now. I mean, read this:

"I'm not trying to prove anything," Georgeanne answered, wedging a tray of salmon asparagus bundles, smoked-bluefish pate and rounds of toast on one end of the table... ... She moved her gaze from the cat to the variety of food she recognized from jobs they'd catered the week before. She recognized the cheese blintzes and the loaf of traditional challah bread from little Mitchell Wiseman's bar mitzvah. The crab cakes and checkerboard canapes looked like they'd come from Mrs. Brody's annual garden party. And the roasted chicken and baby back ribs with plum sauce had been served at the barbeque they'd catered the night before. "Well, it looks like you're trying to prove to someone that you can cook."

I mean, hello?
It makes me feel like slipping on a pretty summer dress, smelling like springtime and flowers and rocking up to an extravagant garden party with flapping white tents and coordinated punch and tableclothes all filled with table after table of foooooooooooood.
Like right now, I wouldn't mind a tall glass of peach-coloured fizzy punch, some cold cuts and cheeses, warm flaky pastries, an array of hors d'ouevres, and reading about that roasted chicken has done me over.
I want roasted chicken. As well as slabs of roast beef! And I want mushroom straganoff. Plus, I really wouldn't mind little squares of nonya kueh; the little colourful ones.

Crap, all I've got with me is a salty pack of cheese and onion flavoured potato chips and a glass of iced water. Stupid book.