On this day I find myself thankful for the following:
There is a certain irony to the way I cook that is never lost on me.
On the one hand, I absolutely loathe pretense, bravado and fuss. Food is such a huge source of pleasure and comfort, and a huge part of that comfort is the anticipation. I want to be able to feel the crispy chicken skin crackling around my molars while every succulent bite of meat dissolves in a garlickey haze above my tongue. I don’t want to ruin or even compromise that anticipation by being preemptively confused by some foofy sauce I’ve never tried. Or by having to wonder if the balsamic reduction is going to taste good on my ice cream. (As if the answer to that question is ever in doubt).