How did they first meet? By the revolving door, on the beach side. It was like a scene in a Lelouch film. Being a person who hums shoobedoobedoo every time I walk into our dear old hotel, I was ... [+]
An Essay after the Style of Montaigne:
What other foods do I hate? American cheese. Ketchup. Mayo or Miracle Whip. Sloppy joes. Pulled pork—or pulled chicken imitating pulled pork. Most steak. Meat in general when it’s the main dish, like a hunk of chicken breast or a slab of pork roast.
This makes me sound like I don’t even like eating. But I love eating. I love food. I love noodles: Japanese ramen or Italian pasta or chewy gnocchi. Artisan bread with the springy center and crackling crust. All varieties of Asian soup. I especially adore raw fish. I could eat sushi and salmon poke bowls for days and live happy. But give me a cheeseburger and I’ll spend most of the meal carefully scraping the cheese itself off with a pile of cheap napkins.
Despite being a picky eater, I’m a terrible cook. Actually, terrible’s the wrong word. I just don’t do it. My husband cooks in this family—enchiladas or white bean chicken chili or potstickers with homemade fried rice. He’s talented. Sometimes I dump frozen meatballs in a pot of store spaghetti sauce (semi-pureed and drowned in basil) and pour that all over some pasta. My husband likes that. He says I make good spaghetti. I say Classico© does. I mean, at least they put enough basil in their marinara sauce.
But I still pick out the chunks.