A $3 seven pound can of Italian San Marzano tomatoes is a beautiful thing.  Probably the best part of my day was coming across that thing.  I checked it suspiciously at first for signs of rust, denting, openings, and whatnot.  But there it stood, intact and tetanus free, just promising loads and loads of potential goodness.  How could I say no?

It would make sense to note that I was shopping at Costco, America’s antidote to green markets and sensibility.  I abhor Costco, on principle.  I know a lot of the stuff is good. Damn it, great even, but my suburban American life is built on careful layers of culinary fantasies and one of them entails shopping at bustling outdoor markets in France offering the freshest and local picked herbs, cheeses and fruits.  Mega packs of toilet paper, vats of canola …Read on

Sorry folks, I’ve left the warmth of Florida for a week of winter skiing in Colorado.

More food and stories upon my return, promise!

There were many hints of his impending betrayal, but, like any woman in love, I chose to look away.  I had been swept off my feet, what can I say, a phrase that would definitely make all my self-sufficient Barnard colleagues shake their heads in disappointment and mutter only this to me: tsk tsk, tsk tsk.  I was in love, maybe not with him, but most definitely with the idea of him: glamour, sophistication, and expensive lust. And we’d been together so many  years, so when  the smallest of signals blinked quietly but straightforwardly at me, I chose to look the other way.

First the brownies didn’t bake evenly.  No one else could tell.  In fact, all where mesmerized, entranced, absolutely orgasmic over my brownies.  But I knew something was up with Dacor then.  The baked batter leaned in a bit …Read on