Alright y’all, let me paint you a picture. It’s 7:42 p.m. on a Wednesday. I’m buck naked in my kitchen, holding a glass of cabernet like it's a weapon of self-love, stirring a pot of risotto with one hand and trying not to let my boob graze the hot pan because that is how nipples die. Tanya just texted me, “U up?” which means she’s either drunk or about to ask me if I still have that bottle of whipped cream vodka in my freezer from our “Bachelor Finale and Feelings” night. (Yes, I do. And no, I’m not proud of it.)

Now listen, if you’ve never eaten a warm chocolate lava cake with no pants on, under dim fairy lights, while “Let’s Get It On” plays in the background and your cat judges you from the counter, then I don’t know what you’re doing with your life. This isn’t about being some fancy French gourmand or living on a vineyard with a guy named Étienne who owns four alpacas and smells like sandalwood and destiny. No, honey. This is about the pure, unadulterated joy of combining two of life’s most sacred pleasures: being naked and shoveling something delicious into your mouth hole.

Some people say food tastes better when you’re hungry. I say it tastes better when your thighs are free to breathe, your stomach isn’t squished in shapewear, and you can jiggle your way through the kitchen without worrying about your jeans cutting off circulation to your spleen.

You see, I discovered this truth one morning after a very regrettable sleepover with a man whose name I don’t remember but whose fridge was stocked like Martha Stewart had just rage-quit Costco. I made myself eggs (naked, obviously), and while I was standing there flipping a frittata with his dog staring at me like I owed it rent, it hit me: this is it. This is what joy feels like. Me. Naked. Making breakfast. Eating it without shame or pants. Drinking cheap prosecco. Living like some kind of sunlit, half-drunk goddess of carbs.

Since then, I’ve tasted everything from crab legs to crème brûlée in the buff, and let me tell you, naked eating is not only a lifestyle, it’s a culinary revolution. It’s freedom. It’s sensual. It’s messy in all the right ways. And yes, sometimes you will drop a grape into your cleavage and forget about it until later when you think, “What’s that smell?” But that’s part of the charm.

This book, The Naked Menu, is not a cookbook. It’s not a diet plan, or a wellness guide, or anything Gwyneth Paltrow would endorse unless we put a jade egg in it. This is a menu of life. A juicy, ridiculous, semi-educational, somewhat erotic guide to the best foods and drinks to enjoy when you are totally, gloriously nude.

I will teach you what pairs well with body heat, what snacks can be eaten without fear of slippage, and which wines you should never drink while straddling a velvet beanbag (spoiler: merlot). Along the way, I’ll tell you stories that involve everything from naked taco nights to an unfortunate cinnamon roll incident that left my inner thighs sticky for three days.

There will be advice. There will be sass. There will be at least one chapter that makes you rethink fondue forever. There may be mentions of my friends like Susan (who once tried to fart into a wine glass and broke it), or Tanya (who swears her butt is like an avocado: firm, round, and expensive to maintain), or Georgina (who joined the nudist life after marrying Jackson, a man who once got a sunburn on his scrotum and called it a “spiritual awakening”).

But mostly, this is about you. You and your beautiful body and your insatiable craving for flavor and freedom. You don’t need a six-pack to eat a six-piece chicken tender bucket in the nude. You don’t need to be a supermodel to enjoy cheesecake with your boobs out. You just need an appetite!

So light a candle. Turn off your phone. Take off your pants. Pour yourself a drink. And let’s get this naked feast started.