By Heidi Yorkshire
Photo by Christine Alicino

July 3, 2008, marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of writer M.F.K. Fisher, whose vivid, impeccably detailed memoirs and essays are among the treasures of American letters. Her first book, Serve It Forth, was published in 1937, yet for decades her works were cherished by a relatively small number of readers. W.H. Auden once called Fisher “the best prose writer in America,” but she remained, in her own words, “a secret little cult figure,” largely because much of her writing is about the transcendent pleasures of eating.

When much of Fisher’s work first appeared, she was relegated by many to the menial category of food writer. Being female and beautiful didn’t help her get taken seriously, either; a 1942 Newsweek review of one of her books describes her as “a blonde gorgeous enough to eat.” Even so, a staunch group of admirers, including editors at The New Yorker and The Atlantic Monthly, continued to recognize the value of her work. Eventually cuisine was elevated to high art, women’s voices were allowed to be heard, and M.F.K. Fisher was unofficially appointed patron saint of the foodie generation. She became — though she shuddered to hear it — famous.

Fisher died in 1992, just shy of her 84th birthday. Appreciation for her work has continued to grow, proving that many readers see the truth of her observation: “There is a communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine is drunk.”

I discovered Fisher’s work in the early 1970s, thanks to my first mother-in-law, a librarian, who also introduced me to the pleasures of A.J. Liebling and Craig Claiborne, among others. (I’m still grateful to Connie for sharing her love of food and books, though my marriage to her son has been history for close to 30 years.) This profile, which has been updated, came about when my editor at a now-defunct magazine suggested that I ask Fisher for an interview. I was shy about phoning someone I admired so much, but when I finally got up the nerve, the great lady could not have been more cordial. “Sure, honey,” Fisher said, “Come on over!”

I showed up at her house on August 15, 1989, accompanied by the man who would become my husband. Though Joe was also a journalist, we had never worked together; still, when he heard who I was going to interview, he refused to be left behind. It was lucky he was there: Fisher, a passionate character even in her eighties, clearly loved men, and flirted like crazy with Joe throughout the interview. I suspect it was a much livelier conversation than we would have had if I’d come alone.