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A Delicious Secret

95% of my meals are made in the microwave, ready for me to eat and enjoy in under 4 minutes. But I will admit that I’m running quite the ruse. You see, I can cook. Like really cook. But I stifle it because I really, really hate washing dishes. I blame The Village, a particularly hideous place where I worked at 14 years old among tall Europeans in lederhosen. I know all the words to “Roll Out the Barrel.” Curious about what’s in the Edelweiss Breakfast? I’m an expert.

So Ma, 100% Italian and sprung from a long line of foodies, is very talented in the kitchen and so I learned a few things along the way… even though I’ve got her believing that I lack domestic abilities with questions like, “how does one exactly fold an eggwhite?” Perhaps this is why a few months ago she served me a blueberry and gravel crepe.

But I can’t fool Ell. Or Mikey. Or Hansly. Or Lens. Or Kapalm. They’ve got my number. And dial it. Mikey’s been suggesting that I throw another no-holds-barred dinner party. Not gonna do it. Kapalm, a food lover unlike any I’ve seen before, specifies exact dishes to bring to her barbecues, no matter how much they contrast with the theme. Ell harasses me into making her complex treats when I’m a-visiting. I mean to make her something really disgusting to throw her off my track but unfortunately everything turns into delicious pieces of art. Indeed I cook AND garnish.

And I am happy until I look at the leftover mess and vow never to cook again.


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