Once we get beyond, say, thirty years old, we become somewhat set in our ways. We know what is good and what is not good (going clubbing and getting smashed is no longer interesting).
But, if the doc said "You have six months to live" and you said "I can't pay you, doc," and he said "Okay well, I'll give you another six months," well, what would you do?
I know what I'd do.
I'd think up a food project. I'd plot and research and plan an elaborate meal that I'd never made before. I'd lovingly go to a dozen markets to get the *exact*-right ingredients, no expense spared, and then spend two, three, even four days chop-chop-chopping, cut-cut-cutting, dice-dice-dicing, brining, slicing, basting, roasting, baking, what have you, while watching cooking shows and drinking good beer and later, good wine.
That's my idea of Paradise.
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