Some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Enough patriarchy-blaming, already. What about dinner?" And even if you’re saying something entirely different to yourself, such as "If my gelatinous neighbor doesn’t knock it off with that leaf blower I will certainly have a cow," a few food pictures are unlikely to affect your will to live.
Above: I cannot stop making that most pragmatic of dishes, the enigmatic Spaghetti Jilroy.
Above: Brunch at the Four Seasons with my family last Sunday. Some sort of fig pastry, a slice of bacon, home fries, and ceviche with mango. The Four throws a repulsively sumptuous brunch. The food all looks beautiful, but sadly, once bitten, it only rarely lives up to its glittering promise. This does not stop me from shoveling it in, however, since otherwise I’d have to talk to my family.
My plate looks a little light, but that’s because this was my third trip through the buffet line, and even we Fasters try to slow down before the gout sets in. I’d already worked my way through the ham and sausage and prime rib and duck and crab claws and assorted pâtés, and the sushi and the chicken salads, and the six kinds of bread, and the eggs benedict, and the fruit and the grilled asparagus. After I finished all that, I begged the waiter for but one last thin wafer, but she was all like, no way, dude.
Above: Frozen Ethnic Gourmet Bean Masala. As depressing as it looks.
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