Double Secret Cookbook Probation

It’s past time that I confessed to a slight cookbook problem.

Promiscuous is not too strong a word. I’m entirely too cavalier about absorbing them to into my world. How I instantly fall in love with them – maintaining them ever so  briefly in their place of honor atop my living room end table. How I try, in, vain, to live vicariously through their dishes and how I sometimes try to rudely step into their unattainable inner world, where chutney maintains its luscious color and every plate is impeccably garnished. How I eventually set them aside when something new comes along. I was even at the point where I made an agreement with myself not to buy any more for a while.

But there are few that stick around. The best ones are trusted friends I can count on for candid, straightforward counsel. One or two are a source of excitement and drama. Some I simply click with. There are Beautiful People who might someday invite me to their parties. And several were just in the right place at the right time.

And some just plain inspire me.

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How I Became a “Henry IV Vegetarian”

First of all, relax.  This is how rumors get started.  I haven’t gone crazy or thrown away the chicken bones in my freezer or bought a yurt or anything like that.   Remember:   pork products…cold dead fingers.

But from now on, I’m only going to eat meat on Sunday. No more chicken salads for lunch, no more pork shoulder in my weeknight stir-frying, no more bacon because I got yelled at at work,  no more “chorizo break” during my housework binges.   There is just Sunday… when I can anticipate and savor and meticulously plan and flawlessly execute what I am desperately craving.  And I am DAMN sure going to enjoy it.
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