When I cook, I like to pretend I’m at a sweaty punk show in a basement boiler room in West Berlin. I could be making a grilled cheese sandwich and still make a scene. Knives chop at speeds approaching Mach 1, various sauces fly through the air, the range is fired up like an array of F-14 afterburners. Meanwhile, I’ve got something cranked at volumes that could raise the resting heart rate of an extra lethargic tree sloth, and I’m running around like a Jesus Lizard trying to catch a bus.
It’s not pretty, but it’s pretty fun. Continue reading