I’ve begun to realize that I can almost never write my way through one of these newsletters without referencing my childhood. Specific meals, restaurants, habits, traditions — I’m incapable of thinking about food without evoking memories. And I know I’m not alone. New food’s fun…
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If I close my eyes, I can picture the cracked red-leather stool at the Steak ‘n’ Shake counter where I sat once a week for most of my childhood…
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The upsetting thing about this duck I ate last week is that I am no longer eating it. In a perfect world, I’d still be sitting at that round table at…
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Two years ago, on a sunny Saturday afternoon in New Orleans, I made my first (and only) visit to the King Cake Hub. Set up on the long, narrow side…
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In 2022, I vow to stop being intimidated by interesting meat. I am a carnivore, through and through. Over the first 18 years of my life, I didn’t eat a…
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Growing up, I thought it was downright exotic that my mom, every month or so, made jambalaya for dinner. This was in St. Louis, where a bargain-bin…
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Warning: This essay briefly discusses disordered eating. My very first online order of the pandemic, once I’d come around to the fact that restaurants…
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The cake is ugly. It’s a shade somewhere between deep brown and beige, an unglamorous and uniform rectangle. It’s best served after being tightly…
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