After about fifteen years of living in Cincinnati, I am finally to the point where I can behave myself at Jungle Jims.
I no longer feel an urge to buy durian fruit ‘just to see what it smells like,” or try to convince myself that I really really will use two big stalks of fresh lemongrass. I’m honest with myself about the honey I need (tupelo or orange blossom, please) and am no longer tempted by the salsa bar, chocolate covered insects, or Indian TV dinners.
But sometimes I do see something extrordinary, and immediately feel the need to plan the entire week’s menu around it. In this case, it was fresh morels.
