Potato Bacon Pizza

Potato Bacon Pizza Recipe

I am not ashamed to admit it publicly: I’m a Solanum tuberosum freak. Yep. Lock me up and throw away the key to the pantry. In other words, I’m a potato fanatic. I wave my freak flag high and proud. I worship all sizes and shapes of this seductive tuber. In fact, so deep goes my freakiness for the starchy little fellows that I have, on many occasions, eaten for dinner nothing but a big-ass bowl of mashed potatoes. (And, yes, I’m well aware of all the big-ass references you’re probably thinking of that can be inserted here, but I’d happily risk your sniggers than be less than my true, unadulterated self.)

Sometimes I do make a concession to dietary diversity and add other food stuffs for a well-rounded meal, such as sour cream (dairy) and chives (vegetables) to baked potatoes or eggs (dairy and protein) to sauteed potato slices for a potato frittata. I’ve even gone all leafy-green vegetarian on myself and stirred sauteed spinach or Swiss Chard into my bowl of sexy, tuberous goodness. Read more »

When Advertising Works, It Works

Sydney International Food Festival

I’ve made no bones about why I hated advertising while I was a copywriter and, later, an associate creative director in countless agencies. Well, I didn’t hate it all 18 years that I worked in the industry, but toward the end, it was mind-bendingly painful. (Have you ever gotten to that point in your career where you fantasized about carrying around sharp objects praying someone got into an argument with you?) During meetings, all I could think about was being in my kitchen baking. What ameliorated the interminable idiocy of creative dingbats and cowardly account people was I got to bring in my perfectly baked goods for all to enjoy. At least that gave me some satisfaction. Read more »

The Author and the Wonderful, Horrible, No Fun, Very Good Day

Portuguese Sweet Lemon and Black Olive Wafers by David Leite

The worst moment in a writer’s life is the day he receives his first rejection slip. The second worst is the day his first book is published.

The former because it only takes one person—one person—to prevent what would have been a remarkable and brilliant early debut. One person, whom the writer is sure was a summer intern from Barnard with a fondness for capri pants and a smug conviction in her ability to assess genius, to deep-six his career. One skinny, privileged-enough-to-survive-being underpaid assistant, who now most likely was a spinning instructor with an eating disorder, to reject him. Read more »

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