When I was six, it was a sin for me to eat food of any kind in the kitchen. Going into this part of the house was one of the few things categorically forbidden me by my parents. I would stand around for hours, my mouth watering, til I saw my chance to sneak into that place of enchantment; and while the maids stood by and screamed with delight, I would snatch a piece of raw meat or broiled mushroom on which I would nearly choke but which,, to me, had the marvelous flavor, the intoxicating quality, that only fear and guilt can impart.