Elizabeth Gilbert
Photo: Ben Baker
Deploying her crinkly, twinkly smile, Liz Gilbert takes a bite of a red velvet cupcake, then wraps her fingers around a warm cup of tea, as though it's some talismanic thing. She's sitting at the Bridge Café in Frenchtown, New Jersey, the restaurant equivalent of Gilbert herself, with its unpretentious, eager-to-please vibe (tin ceilings, homemade pastries, Jackson Browne on the hi-fi). It's just a few minutes from the old Victorian she shares with her husband of almost three years (known to Gilbert fans as Felipe)—the Brazilian she bedded so transformatively toward the end of Eat, Pray, Love. If that literary juggernaut was a response to Gilbert's brutal divorce, her stirring new book, Committed, is a meditation on marriage: Although she and Felipe never had any intention of formalizing their relationship, Felipe's iffy immigration status—plus a run-in with the Department of Homeland Security—pushed them rather rudely in that direction. Here, Gilbert discusses some of the tasty revelations in Committed—about the trouble with children, the unquantifiable beauty of a man who cooks, and the significance of a certain wine-colored coat.

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