
Clockwise from lower left, Deborah Jones, David Hughes, Dave Cruz, Jeff Cerciello, moi, Amy Vogler, Thomas (yes, first name only now), Susie Heller/Photo "by" Deborah Jones
I got an email last week that made my blood boil. Yes, seemingly to boil. Not simmer. A blanching-green-veg boil, a pressure cooker boil. The kind of boil my blood gets when I’m at a restaurant and I hear a woman, grilling the server suspiciously, saying, "I'm allergic to lactose” and then later says, “Oooh, could you wheel that cheese cart over here? Gawd, I love Epoisse." I’m just minding my own business, a happy Bertie Wooster moment at my desk before work, dreaming of confiting turkey legs, and an email pops into my box and it’s like someone smacked me on the skull with a cricket bat. It was from Heather Clayton, an expat living in southern Germany, trying to plan a meal here in the once sensible USA (West ...
I have so much crap on my desk! Being gone for three weeks it piles up. Books I have to at least familiarize myself with, dried soy beans and a tofu press, the manuscript I've got to fix, knives and rolling pins and some weird Fagor three-way cooker to figure out, emails to respond to, the ineluctable ... not modality of being ... but the ineluctable compulsion to check twitter feed. OY! But I never get tired of mayonnaise you make yourself. I don't care if it's with a hand blender or whisk. Helmann's is fine—I use that too, but it's not anywhere near homemade mayo. Two totally different products, and that's and why I love it. Its goodness is something you can't buy. You ...