Once or twice a year I get drafted to participate in the creation of dinner. By that I mean The Wife issues a set of specific instructions that The Husband (me) is obligated to carry out, no questions asked.As a non-foodie, a man who would starve to death left on my own, I am rarely asked to perform even the most menial food preparation task. Once I smushed potatoes through a ricer and a few years back, after setting three timers and distributing a blizzard of Post-it notes, I...
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Et tu, Parmesan?We can’t trust the cops. We can’t trust the priests. We can’t trust our 401(k)s and Lord knows we can’t trust politicians. Now we can’t even trust cheese!Yes, those lovely, snowy flakes and slivers of aged and shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano have now joined the long list of once venerated institutions tainted by the greedy hand of corner cutters and cons.Last week the Food and Drug Administration blew the whistle on a...
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My apologies to the Sullivans. My stunted palate once again became the tail that wagged the dog and ruined another swanky L.A. dinner party. Kirk and Deann Sullivan are former neighbors and longtime friends. Deann also happens to be a foodie and a gifted hostess who loves trying new recipes. I, on the other hand, have the gastronomic sensibilities of a 9-year-old. A perfect meal for me is a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. If it comes shrink-wrapped on a small square of white cardboard with cream filling, I’m in. If you tracked down the recipe after watching Anthony Bourdain on CNN wolf down a forkful while squatting on a bamboo mat in a hut in Cambodia, I’m out.
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