If you think moving to Europe means leaving all your worries behind and living out every scene from “Under the Tuscan Sun,” I have news for you: you are sadly mistaken, my friend.
I’ve noticed lately that some people talk about food the way others talk about sex. I find this fascinating. Often these food lovers aren’t portly, as one might expect, but skinny wisps of boys and girls a stronger gust of wind could knock right out of their socks. They have hungry eyes at every dinner party, and can’t concentrate on any conversation, no matter how interesting or relevant it may be.
Have I got your attention yet? I thought I’d say a thing or two about everyone’s favorite topic. You can stop reading right now if you’re expecting me to be dirty. I washed my brain with soap earlier today, so this will be no porn-post.
Please don’t try to tell me that radio died thirty years ago. I know that whole story. Maybe in your world that’s the way it went. In mine, radio lived until about 24 hours ago.
I’m sure you’re expecting me to give you sage advice about how you can improve your intellectual life by performing various yoga positions, by drinking lots of ginseng tea, or by reading through the entire syllabus of a college literature course. I’m not going to do that.
Why do kids always think their life will be so much better once they grow up?
No, I’m not talking about George Clooney’s aunt. I know she’s dead. I’m talking about Rosemary the herb, and I’m going to write her name like that, capital R, because for me, she is the Queen of All Things Culinary.
You are looking at the last Lego brick from my once large childhood collection. Out of hundreds of pieces I had as a kid, this is the only one left. The others weren’t lost in some kind of senseless Legocide.