MFK Fisher’s How to Cook a Wolf offered wartime heads of household camaraderie, sage advice, and inspiration as they tried to make the most of scarce or restricted food, utilities, and peace of mind.

Today, some 66 years since its publication during World War II, Wolf still speaks to economizing cooks, as well as economizing eaters. Interspersed among Fisher’s instructions concerning material concerns, such as stocking pantry shelves for blackouts and using a heated oven for more than one dish, are snippets of her idea of satiety of both stomach and soul—when both are satisfied, she believes, no more food need be eaten at that time. I embrace Fisher’s practical take on the role of dessert:

“Probably one of the best ends to a supper is nothing at all. If the food has been simple, plentiful, and well prepared; if there has been time to eat it quietly, with a friend or two; if the wine or beer or water has been good: then, more often than not, most people will choose to leave it so, with perhaps a little cup of coffee for their soul’s sake.”

Though I rarely have a dessert with dinners at home, often a “nice dinner out” grows into a gorgefest including appetizer, entrée, and dessert. And I’m often full after the entrée. So I find Fisher’s words as challenging as they are inspiring; I’d be lucky to recall them before the next time I order the butterscotch banana tart with caramel, chocolate, and beaten cream after thoroughly enjoying a plate of seared sea scallops and an appetizer of romaine heart with blue cheese and bacon crumbles. (This tangent may be construed as an endorsement of Tryst restaurant in Arlington, Massachusetts.) Maybe I should jot her words on an index card to carry around with me.

Fisher believed that an expectation of dessert, especially among the kids in the household, springs from a disinterest in the same-old meal structure (meat, starch, vegetable) day after day after day, and it’s a conditioned, unenthusiastic expectation at best. (“Balance the day, not each meal in the day.”) Her solution is “to have such good food and such generous casseroles and bowls and platters of it, that there cannot be a conditioned appetite for more, after the real sensuous human one is satisfied.”

The notion that food that is sensually and quantitatively satisfying, be it to the eye, tongue, or tummy, could negate an ingrained want for more is laughable to those of us who purge our pantries of even the smallest quantities of our favorite foods, lest we eat every last morsel in a fit of desire or frenzy. But those pantry items—the Oreos, the shelled almonds, even the 100-calorie Balance bars—can rarely be filed under “sensuous” and if they were truly satisfying, one wouldn’t feel the need to eat every last one. In the best of all worlds, if a meal satisfies nutritionally, sensuously, and viscerally, we would eat toward fulfillment, not overfill.

When trying to watch what one eats, one could add a corollary to Fisher’s theory: To truly ascertain whether you’ve had enough to eat, take an internal assessment of what has been fed, as opposed to an external measurement of what’s to be eaten.

Fisher shares dozens of recipes, from simple Normandy Pheasant and Frittata of Zucchini, to last-resort “sludge” to keep one alive if resources hit rock bottom. And the spirited Fruits aux Sept Liqueurs, which calls for a few slices a fruit dropped into a bath of seven liqueurs, and fantastical Colonial Dessert, comprised entirely of thick cream, egg yolk, and sugar, aim to pleasure the imagination if not the palate. Concluded Fisher, “Since we must eat to live, we might as well do it with grace and gusto.”