You're asking yourself what it is we mean by "cooking with emotion"-- Discover the process by which a single slice of mozzarella can reflect, in an infinite number of ways, what you are, who you are. Now. Every once in a while, somebody will ask me what exactly I mean by "emotional cooking". I usually reply that a session at the stove is a type of therapy. In any given emotional state, rather than preserving it forever in a solution of brooding and inertia, you can actually cook it away. Knead it, let is rise of its own accord, stuff it, give it a good brushing off, stick it in the oven. It mutates, becomes transformed... in this way, all fury and euphoria, despair and delight, fuel a creative act which can be shared. Emotional cuisine is the most positive imaginable case of energy conversion I can think of. Let's consider my own case. A peppy somebody calls and says, "Write us a summer recipe; something with a nice, light, yummy summer something like a 'wet' mozzarella!" (In NYC, try Di Palo's in Little Italy of Balducci's in the Village. Store leftovers submerged in cold water with a drop of milk). About all I have in common with this nice, light, yummy substance at the moment is a cheesy white complexion -- a result of the fact that I've spent the last month locked in the house with a major depression. Oh, and the watery tears that started when my fiancé beat a fast retreat. But I know, at the rate I'm going, if I continue to console myself with chocolate, mozzarella and I would soon be sharing something else - a certain flaccid consistence less than attractive on a woman. How to prepare "Mozzarella in Carrozza"

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