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I expect to get sticker shock at the grocery store these days, what with the price of food up about 6% at the end of this year, compared to last.
But the cost of breakfast cereal has leapt a staggering 12.5%, and our family of three goes through three or four boxes—at around $6 each—a week. I can’t afford this, and I bet you can’t either.
Now in these tough times I expect the price of New Zealand lamb to be soaring (and it is), but I can easily swap red meat for beans and rice several nights a week. But a box of commodity grains that our government is supposed to subsidize? What gives? Read More
Like many responsible adults, I follow lots of rules. Some are for safety—look both ways before crossing the street; don’t leave perishable food out for more than two hours. Others are my own self-imposed, because-it’s-healthy-for-me and I-want-to-set-a-good-example limitations. These rules include the following.
I moved into my first Manhattan apartment last month and the kitchen is the size of my work cubicle. I have non-existent counter space, temperamental burners that don’t reach full heating potential if more than one is on, and an oven that hasn’t been properly cleaned since 1933. As you can see at left, the kitchen is approximately three feet wide, with every inch used for an appliance. And I share it with a roommate.
I’ve always been a strict recipe follower. Maybe it’s because I’m a dietitian (amounts of butter and sour cream matter) or because I’m pretty Type A. But I’ve never understood how some folks can just go forth and make a dish without knowing exactly what they’re going to put in it. Those people have always seemed like artists to me—able to riff on tradition and follow an innate culinary compass to greatness. I, on the other hand, have always felt like a chemist—if I didn’t add the correct amounts of compound A and B, my results would be less than satisfying. Plus, since my kitchen time is limited by a busy schedule (whose isn’t?), I believe it should be productive, and I don’t want to end up with a concoction that no one wants to eat. I’m happy to announce that I’ve finally left the land of the chemistry geeks and I’m flirting with the cool kids.
I am no domestic goddess. I am a doodler in an Italian family where cooking is an art. My family finds this hysterical, and conversations at holiday meals inevitably end with coffee, dessert, and tales of my culinary catastrophes. Here’s a taste from last year’s festivities.
I’m ashamed to call myself a food editor these days. My wine glasses are seeing far more use than my pots and pans, and I haven’t made a real trip to the grocery store in weeks. I’ll blame it on recent travels.
