It just occurred to me

Compassion is a mixed blessing: those who have it feel the pain of others, but can also experience genuine love and quiet joy.  those who lack compassion tend to get exactly what they want in this life, other than genuine love and quiet joy.

Caesar Meets Alfredo

Johnny Depp--naked!  Free chocolate truffles!

Now that I have your attention, did you know that American menus (and manufacturers of cholesterol-lowering drugs) owe a debt of thanks to American movie stars Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks? 

Seriously! It’s widely believed that because of Pickford and Fairbanks, the given names most mentioned (and recognized) on American menus—from high-end eateries to fast food joints—are Caesar and Alfredo.  When a dish carries one of their names, we know (pretty much) what we’re getting, and we order it.  And order it again.  Boy Howdy, do we ever order it.

Pass the cheese, Louise.  But first, here’s a little history:

For the past century, at least, Roman restaurants have catered to American tourists by serving pasta with butter and parmesan cheese.  Most Italians prefer olive oil and cheese on their pasta, but, apparently, 20^th century Yanks craved a bit more tasty saturated fat on their noodles.

Then in 1914, when the pregnant wife of Chef Alfredo di Lelio, who owned a small restaurant in Rome, was nauseated by the thought of eating tomato sauce, her thoughtful hubby, Alfredo, created a special dish for her: egg fettuccine with butter and Parmigiano Reggiano cheese.

Enter globetrotting sweethearts, Mary and Doug, who were regulars at the restaurant (Alfredo alla Scrofa).  The celebrity foodies tried the dish and loved it.  When they got back to the States, they introduced other Hollywood actors to “Fettuccine Alfredo” and, a huge hit, the dish was recreated in America.  Naturally, the American version contained even more animal fat, with the addition of heavy cream.  But I digress.

Fast forward 10 years to Tijuana, Mexico—just a stone’s throw from California.  I can tell you from personal experience that come closing time, lots of SoCal partiers head south to “TJ,” where libations are available all night long.  It’s a no-brainer that in 1924 (during prohibition), local American drinkers both ended and began their celebrations south of the border.

Anyway, the story goes that after an especially busy Fourth of July, 1924, our heroes, the now-married Pickford/Fairbanks superstars, stopped in at chef Caesar Cardini’s TJ restaurant for a late-night bite (I’ve visited the restaurant many times—and not always after hours).

Meanwhile, Caesar, swamped with tourists all day, didn’t have much left in the larder, but he wanted to impress his high-rolling patrons and their high-falutin movie-star friends.  Ever the grand host, Cardini grabbed what he had left: romaine lettuce, garlic, salt and pepper, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, a few eggs (coddled), wine vinegar, olive oil, parmesan cheese and croutons.  With a flourish, he tossed the first-ever Caesar Salad at the table, to the diners’ delight.  [Note: the anchovy flavor in the original Caesar salad was from the Worcestershire sauce—no fish were added to the bowl.)

Cardini’s salad was a big hit with the beautiful people, but didn’t appear on a restaurant menu for more than 20 years.

But by the 1970s, restaurants all over North America were adding these “Italian” dishes to their bills of fare. There are now entire cookbooks dedicated to making the “king of salad,” and “Alfredo” is now synonymous with garlicky white pizza sauce.

When I was a kid back East, Eat ‘n Park drive-through restaurants served hamburgers and fries and not much else.  Nowadays, they offer both Caesar salad and fettuccine Alfredo!  Doug and Mary would be so proud! 

Lots of restaurants offer both pasta with Caesar sauce and salad with Alfredo sauce (or vice versa, natch).  We can pick up a pizza or lasagna with Caesar/Alfredo sauce, not to mention umpteen Alfredo/Caesar chicken sandwich variations.

Caesar Salad and Fettuccine Alfredo are incredibly popular and delish—no doubt about it.  But they’re not for the faint of heart: a plate of Alfredo at Macaroni Grill contains about 1,130 calories (with 53 grams of saturated fat!).  And while you’re feeling holy chomping greens for dinner, an entrée Caesar salad with chicken at the Old Spaghetti Factory will slap you with 1,110 calories.

If you’re over 40 and opt for Caesar followed by Alfredo, capped off with, let’s say, a slim 1,000-calorie slice of tiramisu, I’m here to tell you that skipping the breadsticks and chugging the red wine just won’t help.  So, here’s my best advice:  call 911 before placing your order. 

The Truth about Women and Math: X – X ≠ 0

I’ve hated math all my life—or at least since the third grade.   That was the year Mr. Bunch decided to teach us arithmetic not only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, but also during the two periods per week that had been set aside for “art.”  After a few weeks of no paints, crayons, or pastily-constructed masterpieces of colored paper, I asked him to “please give us back our art.”

Mr. Bunch raised his chin and, looking down at me, explained:  “The study of mathematics is an art.”  I thrust out my nearly eight-year-old chin and replied: “Not to me it isn’t.”

From then on, until the end of the school year, on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 10:00 and 11:00, I drew pictures of the trees, birds, and squirrels that lived just beyond the classroom window.   I sketched profiles of my fellow classmates as they struggled over long division and fractions, and I re-invented Cubism, using Mr. Bunch as an unwitting model.

Apparently, I missed a few fundamental math concepts during those creative sessions, because at the end of the year, I got a big, red “F” in arithmetic that stuck with me right through high school.   From grade three on, I was—like Hester Prinne—branded, but with an “F” for “Female.”

In spite of that badge of shame, I never had much trouble with story problems.   “If Mr. Jones wants his company to show an annual profit of $600,000,” it’s only fair that I help him increase his daily production of lollypops, toy trains, or nuclear waste containers by 6.3%.   

I’m not unreasonable; I realize math can be a helpful part of real life.   Without it, bridges would collapse, spacecraft might explode, and none of us would be able to figure out our taxes.   It’s when we get into higher math that my inner alarms go off.   Algebra, I believe, has always been a bad idea, and can be harmful.   One obvious proof of this is that my single term of college algebra had to be expunged from an otherwise 4.0 semester.   When the components, variables, and exponentials started coming at me hard and heavy, I lost track of good old Mr. Jones, his dependents and employees, and found myself sketching cockatiels, tornadoes, and Victorian doilies in the margins of my notebook.  During the second algebra exam, I tried imagining an earthly need to find answers to the problems.  Maybe Mr. Jones needs to measure an L-shaped grain silo for carpeting?  But the stubborn third-grade artist in me balked at the notion, and I walked out of the classroom forever—“scarlet letter” intact.

Much of what kids are required to learn in school—particularly in college—is taught from a perspective very unnatural to most females.  Although the majority of university professors are still male, they can’t be blamed; rather, the culprit is the longstanding tradition of analyzing issues (along with organisms) from within the vacuum of abstraction.  In an upper-division philosophy class, for example, I was once required to elaborate on and dissect the equation: “A has a right to X against O, by virtue of Y.”  This, needless to say, is a one-size-fits-all axiom for human rights—with all the humanity neatly extracted for our convenience.  Regardless of old Aristotle’s undisputed postulate: “A is A”, I find A, and even the challenged O, to wear a million different hats and present nearly 7 billion individual faces.  If A is pregnant, is she a potential 2A or, perhaps, an A+?

For some women, even the tired-and-true “2 + 2 = 4” can present problems.  If we sum up Mr. and Mrs. Jones with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, certainly, we come up with 4.  But what if Mrs. Jones has a child from a former marriage?  And what if (just to further complicate matters—real life being a messy business, after all) Mother Jones was Mr. Smith’s first wife?  Should the child be represented in the equation at all?  And if so, does he belong on the Jones’ side of the equation: 3 + 2—or on the Smith’s side: 2 + 3?  And can we convince either side to give up its right to the extra unit?  We could simply divide “it” up equally, giving us 2 ½  + 2 ½; but down here on Earth, beneath the inflated, sterile island of abstraction, a wise old sensualist named Solomon illustrated the impracticality of that solution some 2,000 years ago.

When we compartmentalize issues or elements, we run the risk of allowing ourselves the unrealistic luxury of easy management and clear-cut solutions without having to bloody our hands.  If Pol Pot, Lee Harvey Oswald and Ted Bundy considered each of their targets as X, the logical conclusion (in their minds) might well have been that X – X = 0.  If Hitler regarded the “Jewish Problem” or Harry Truman thought of the “Japanese Problem”  as X, the hoped-for difference would also have been 0.  And if X represents a single tree in a Brazilian rain forest, or one spotted owl in the Oregon woods, the elimination of either would equal 0 as well.

As a unit—one human being—who has, as a pregnant mother, on two occasions represented other potential human beings, and hence multiplied into three individual people, I must reject the equation altogether.  Aristotle nearly understood the importance of “potentiality,” but it was the wise and uneducated Shug, in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, who said: “If I cut a tree, my arm would bleed.”   In other words, we cannot separate X from us with impunity, because we are X. 

If Y represents a potential for loss, madness, joy, retribution, growth, destruction, utopia or Armageddon, then X – X clearly equals Y.  As Solomon wrote: “Wisdom crieth without; she uttereth her voice in the streets.”  And real life is lived outside the sterile  theoretical bubble, at ground level, just on the other side of the glass.

A Month of Cakes

The Jewish neighborhood I grew up in had a bakery on every corner.  Hermann’s had the best bagels I’ve ever tasted, plus a dark marble cake that was bought by the slab, measured out in ounces, and wrapped in waxed paper.  Rosenbloom’s had cheesecake so famously awesome that I’d often see celebrities picking up their orders before flying off to LA, New York, or wherever.  Silberberg’s made cherry, raisin or poppy seed coffeecakes to die for, plus a yellow coconut layer cake I’ve never come close to reproducing.  But the only place to buy a birthday cake was the fancy Waldorf bakery.  These four-layer beauties, adorned with pale pink, yellow or blue buttercream roses, were the best reason I could think of for even having a birthday. 

We were a poor family, but my dad loved good food—especially pastries.  Even when times were tough, I could always expect a few birthday gifts and one of those magnificent Waldorf chocolate cakes with the ivory frosting that melted the minute it touched your tongue.

I remember being excited about my eighth birthday!  Not because I expected heaps of gifts, but because I could enjoy one day of mostly positive attention, a little peace, and nine candles (one for good measure) on my spectacular Waldorf birthday cake.  I was hoping for blue flowers, as I was getting too big for pink, and already had to share an insipidly pink bedroom with my big sister.

When no one said “Happy birthday, Jilly!” in the morning, I wondered if there were some special surprise coming my way in the afternoon.  But, no; by dinnertime, there were still no birthday wishes, no balloons, no friends and relatives popping out of the shadows.  After we’d cleared the supper dishes that evening, and my dad had left the table, I realized there would be no party, no well-wishers, no gifts, and—most importantly—no cake.  My family had forgotten my birthday.

I know:  poor me.  Worse things happen every moment, all over the world, to more deserving, more neglected children than I was.  But the memory of the day stuck with me.  Ever since that eighth birthday, I always get a damned birthday cake.  And I mean a good cake—and when I say a cake is good, you can believe it’s really freaking amazing.  If I have to, I bake it or buy it myself.

People who know me understand the importance of my dumb birthday cake.  There have been birthdays when I’ve gotten three or more different magnificent cakes, from several outstanding bakeries, from people who love me.  Last October I got a Sacher torte (chocolate, apricot, to die for) from my husband, and an amazing marble/fudge/cream cheese cake (Beaverton Bakery—the best bakery on the West Coast) from my daughter.

Good-intentioned people who don’t really know me have honored my b-day with cheap mass-produced cakes.  I’m grateful for the kind thought, but I just can’t eat them.  A couple of years ago, a fellow cake snob surprised me with a big fancy looking “birthday” cupcake from a local supermarket.   I said thanks, but once she was gone, I took one taste and threw the dry, sickly sweet thing into the trash. 

I taught myself to bake before I ever learned to cook.  It was important to me that everyone, myself included (ok, myself especially), get a really good cake at least once a year.  Eventually, I studied cake decoration and baking techniques and worked as a baker and pastry cook (numerous jobs, until I went back to school and studied writing), and even had my own little bakery for a couple of years.

So, anyway, that’s why I’m always the designated go-to birthday cake baker in my extended circle.  I can easily forget my own phone number or anyone’s name or where in the hell I am, but I always remember what kinds of cake people like.

February is a short month, but a busy time for me and my trusty KitchenAid (I’ve had the same one for 25 years).

• Last week was my wonderful stepdaughter Maria’s 12^th birthday: sour cream fudge cake, vanilla buttercream filling, dark ganache frosting, decorated with 10k gold dust.
• This Saturday is my splendid husband’s b-day: devil’s-food cake, mocha frosting and filling, ganache decoration and toasted coconut all over it.
• Sunday (Valentine’s Day) is my dear daughter-in-law’s birthday.  She’s five months pregnant, and requested an all-vanilla cake: white batter, vanilla bean pastry cream filling, cream cheese buttercream frosting, sprinkled with pearl dust.
• Washington’s Birthday (2-22) is my beautiful son’s birthday: Black Forest Cake, complete with Kirsch-soaked cherries, chocolate curls and rosettes of vanilla whipped cream.

[FYI: the difference between devil’s-food and fudge or chocolate cake is that devil’s-food batter is made with cocoa (and usually oil), rather than unsweetened chocolate and butter.]

So, if you should ever need a good recipe for cake, filling or frosting—or if you have any questions about fine pastries, just ask me.  I’ll be in the kitchen—just two feet from my little office—probably whipping up some mocha frosting.

Oh, and whenever it is, and wherever you may be:

Happy Birthday!!!

Crazy Food Fads, redux

Over the next several days, I’ll be posting info about various food fads and their origins. Unlike food “trends,” which have roots in the community or greater culture, fads are fickle. They travel the globe in a hurry and often disappear just as quickly.

Whereas trends often give birth to fads—e.g., global trends toward youthfulness and healthier living have brought on hundreds of diet and health fads over the years—fads pretty much never give birth to trends.

That said, some trends are nearly as temporary as fads, and some of them trigger counter-trends.  For example, the massive societal trend toward healthier (low-fat, low-carb, locally produced, raw, anti-oxidant, “slow,” etc.) foods inspired a huge backlash movement favoring retro and comfort foods. And I mean the full-fat, old-timey comforts our grandmothers served up, like crunchy, gooey macaroni and cheese, fried latkes with sour cream, and meatloaf with buttery, creamy mashed potatoes (be still, my cholesterol- laden heart).

Today’s featured fad is one of the most popular of those backlash foods:

IT’S BACON!

“Baconmania” went viral online a few years ago, but has been growing since the 1980s. Consumption of bacon increased drastically during the height of the low-carb diet craze—when quantities of fruit and grains were a no-no and unlimited bacon, eggs and butter were considered a good thing.

Bacon is also a big part of the health-food backlash.  Other than tobacco use, what could be more socially rebellious in our health-conscious society than chomping on smoky, fat-crispy strips of super-high-sodium, nitrate-laden (and nasty nitrite forming) pig belly?

Omitting good old fashioned bacon bits, bacon salt and the Bacon of the Month Club (I swear, it’s real), here’s a partial list of actual bacony products available for baconmaniacal purchase.  I kid you not.  (Just collecting the list made my blood pressure, LDL cholesterol level and jeans size skyrocket.)

Bacon chocolate bars (assorted)

Bacon gummy bears

Bacon ice cream

Bacon gum

Bacon cigarette papers (for multi-tasking rebels)

Bacon vodka

Bacon jam

Bacon lip balm

Bacon mints

Bacon bubbles for the kids

Bacon coffee

Bacon toothpicks

Bacon jellybeans

Bacon dental floss

Bacon popcorn

Bacon cookies

Bacon air freshener

Bacon candles

Bacon brittle

Bacon beer

Bacon cotton candy

Bacon-flavored bottled water

Tomorrow’s food fad:  Bubble Tea!

Bubble Tea

If you’re not familiar with bubble tea, you’re probably not alone. I learned about it just last year from my 11-year-old stepdaughter, Maria, who loves the stuff.

Also called pearl milk or boba milk tea, it’s basically a mixture of instant black, red or green tea (or fruit smoothie type liquid) and fruity flavoring, plus dairy or non-dairy creamer.  Into that brew are dropped a handful of “boba balls,” and it’s the bobas (or bubbles) that make this drink so darned “special.” 

Boba balls are ¼ - ½-inch semi-opaque spheres made from a combo of tapioca and carrageenan powder.  These rubbery, chewy little nuggets are adored by some folks and abhorred by others.  [Note: Carrageenan has been dubbed a dangerous food by various nutritionists and tapioca is a starch with no nutritional value.]

The ballsy concoction is usually served up in a disposable cup with a clear plastic bubble lid, and always comes with an industrial-sized straw to accommodate the passing of the bulbous bobas.

Invented 20-some years ago in Taiwan, bubble tea rolled through East Asia until its popularity snowballed in Canada.  From there, it ricocheted its way down to New York City’s Chinatown, then bounced right over the Midwest to the American West Coast, where it’s found an ever-expanding audience.

If you’re at all familiar with my tastes, you might guess that I’m not a great fan of bubble tea.  You’d be correct, as usual.  To be fair, I’m not a big fan of tapioca, period.  I mean, it’s fine as a thickener for fruit pies and not terribly offensive in its smaller form in a custard or blancmange pudding.  But as for sucking up and masticating oversized balls of it whilst sipping a cold drink, you can count me out.  Blech.

Barring the remote possibility of accidentally lodging a wayward boba into my windpipe, bubble tea will never become a problem for me.  But if you take up the habit, be warned that each innocent-looking boba ball contains up to 15 calories, and a large bubble tea can deliver a whopping 480 calories!

I’ll just wait out this food fad and save a few dozen calories by treating myself to a Venti mocha with whipped cream, thank you very much.

Tomorrow: Caesar meets Alfredo!

Food Fads

Last week, during a visit with my best friend in Sonoma, California, four of us had a fine meal at a Petaluma tapas restaurant.  It occurred to me, once again, that foods can gain popularity and lose it just as quickly.

Sometimes, new foods and flavors are appreciated for their novelty and lose favor when the novelty wears off.  My girlfriend, for example, used to love pesto.  She made it often, fresh from her amazing garden; but now she thinks pesto is just "so-so".  For awhile it, like "blackened" everything, appeared on every upscale menu.

We've all munched our way through TV dinners, fondue parties and high-fat granola, only to eventually turn up our noses at them. They had their moment in the culinary sun, only to fade off into the horizon.

On the other hand, the world fell in love with ice cream cones when they were introduced at the 1904 World's Fair, and their popularity shows no sign of waning any time soon.  Pizza and bagels captured an American audience before I was born, and millions of people still can't get enough of them.

Within the next few years, we'll probably see fewer fruity salsas, cilantro-infused cocktails, diet sodas and "stacked" dinner plates. I, for one, won't miss them (although I could go for some cheese fondue right about now).

So, why all the buzz this past decade about tapas?  Sure, Spanish food is tasty, but why do people want tiny plates of tapas at wedding receptions, banquets and even at upscale restaurants? 

I think the popularity of tapas falls in line with trends toward whole grains, organic veggies and red wine.  Just as it's more sensible to eat a single (and very popular!) cupcake than a big wedge of layer cake, it's healthier to eat a small plate of calamari or fried polenta in Alfredo sauce than it is to eat a large plateful.  The new foodie's mantra: moderation in all things--including moderation. 

I leave it to you to explain the 20th century love affair with Jello.  Now, that one's still a mystery to me.

Real World Cooking

I don't know about you, but I'm a fussy eater. There aren't many foods I won't eat, but whatever I eat (or cook) has to be good.

No. It has to be better than good. I expect every bite to be spectacular; but I also expect my grocery bill to be modest.

I learned a lot about cooking when I worked as a professional cook and baker. I learned at least as much cooking for my own family. And, okay, I've even picked up a few tips from TV cooking shows.  They're fun to watch, and occasionally provide an interesting technique or recipe.

But if you're like me, you have little in common with TV chefs. You're a real cook, living in the real world, dealing with a real budget, and cooking in a real kitchen--without access to prep cooks, stellar appliances and a never-ending pantry stocked with pricy ingredients.

No matter. You can put together an endless supply of amazing meals without breaking the bank (or your back) by learning a few tricks and watching the markets. Not the stock market--the food markets. The first secret to producing great food on a budget is buying everything in season. Meats and seafood are seasonal. Sales on cereals, baking supplies and even kitchen gadgets are seasonal. And of course, fruits and veggies are seasonal.

Seasonal produce is always cheaper, fresher, more abundant and of higher quality than anything off-season. I mean, consider an imported strawberry in January. It'll be pale, tasteless, unripe, and worst of all: expensive!  Not the best time for some gourmet strawberry-based dessert. Now, compare that sad, overpriced berry with plentiful (read: inexpensive) midsummer Oregon strawberries: juicy, red, perfumed and bursting with vitamins and natural sweetness. I'm thinking pie. Shortcake. Mousse. Home-churned ice cream. Oh, baby, somebody stop me before I get to the cheesecake topping!

Asparagus is great right now. Oranges? Not so thrilling. Scallions: good; Walla Wallas? Not quite yet.

I could go on, but why not find out for yourself? The world class Portland Farmers Market at PSU kicks off this year's season on the first day of spring--next Saturday, March 21.

Don't miss this local food party, with entertainment, flowers and every delicacy from smoked local fish to some of the best of our local bakeries. Best of all, you'll see first-hand which produce is fresh, delicious and priced right.

The PSU Farmers Market runs from 8:30 am through 2 pm. at the South Park Blocks. Bring the kids. Bring the dog. But leave your shopping list at home. Let what's fresh decide what goes on your menu. But more on that topic next time. Right now, I need a snack.

 UPDATE: Don't bring your dog to the Portland Farmers Market! The rules have changed this season, and our furry friends are no longer welcome!

Gourmet Our Way

It’s been over a month since the final issue of Gourmet magazine hit the streets.  After nearly 70 years, the nation’s most elite foodie publication was axed by parent company Condé Nast in October.  The magazine’s poor cousin, Bon Appétit, is still in publication and will fulfill (sort of) Gourmet’s remaining subscriber obligations.  But, if you ask me, Gourmet was the equivalent of glazed wild salmon en croute, sauced with caramelized-shallot-sautéed morels; whereas Bon Appétit is more like tuna salad on supermarket rye: not bad; but not really remarkable, either.

With major newspapers and magazines folding all over the country, it shouldn’t surprise us to lose Gourmet, even though, at the time of its demise, the mag’s readership reportedly remained in the 1 million-plus range.  Of course, people in the print biz know that “readership” is a marketing term that doesn’t equal subscriber numbers—it’s a combined estimate of how many additional people may pick up and read a copy of someone else’s paid-for magazine, thus exposing themselves to the ads.

Anyway, in spite of its strong readership, advertisers stopped buying Gourmet’s prohibitively expensive ad space.  Many people don’t realize that subscription and single-copy sales provide only a small percentage of a magazine’s (or newspaper’s) revenue.  It’s advertisers, not readers, who finance magazines in bringing home the apple wood-smoked, hand-sliced bacon.  When readers stop responding to those ads, companies stop buying ads, and it’s game over.  It’s what’s happening to print media all over the world—particularly at upscale publishing companies like Condé Nast.

Times are tough all over, and even well-heeled foodies just aren’t buying the big-ticket items historically advertised on those slick, glossy pages.  And even if they don’t mind appearing vulgar in the current economy, if they choose to flaunt their wealth buying luxury items, they probably find better deals for them online.

In addition to the recent lack of ad revenue, Gourmet—“The Magazine of the Good Life”—suffered from costly production expenses.  Condé Nast writers have always been famously well compensated, with huge expense accounts; Gourmet editor Ruth Reichl alone pulled a reputed seven-figure salary.  Stir in all that delicious travelogue-style photography and extensive worldwide research and watch the money melt away like white truffle butter on hot blini.

I subscribed to Gourmet when I was first learning to cook, and tried hundreds of the magazine’s elegant, complex recipes.  Aside from drooling quietly over the covers at the newsstand, I haven’t really looked at a copy of the magazine in decades; but I’m grateful for all the issues I digested.  Second only to the beloved Julia Child’s TV shows (I watched every episode), Gourmet taught me most of what I know about cooking, choosing and appreciating beautiful food. 

We’ve lost the revered Julia, Sheila Lukins (culinary whiz behind numerous cookbooks, columns and cooking shows), and now even Gourmet magazine has disappeared like a crispy-tender, chocolate-dipped Madeleine set out for Santa on Christmas Eve. 

So, now what?  Where do we go for gastronomic guidance and cookery inspiration?  We can always click into gourmet.com, which continues to thrive; we can reread Mastering the Art of French Cooking or pick up the new edition of The Silver Palate Cookbook: all fine enough ideas.

Or you can come to me for tips on fine pastries and all things chocolate; I’ll turn to you for recipes and expertise on vegan, Italian, sustainable, quick, budget, Thai or whatever sort of cooking you specialize in; and with appreciation for all the hard work and wisdom that came before us, we’ll eat better than ever.