Every once in awhile, I must subject you to photos from my travels. In my head, this is justified by the fact that every trip I take is centered on food.

My trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico, in early May was no exception. My sister and I stayed in a little guesthouse a few blocks from the beach in the residential Ocean Park neighborhood and quickly fell into a daily routine of breakfast in the kitchenette, lunch outside, beach, blended drinks, dinner outside and early to bed. A trip to lovely Old San Juan filled the only semi-rainy day before it was time to pack again and head home to cooler temps and a far less leisurely daily schedule.

Our trip began with a cancelled Delta flight (because of a broken toilet). Needless to say, we and our suitcases immediately retreated to Big Star for an emergency pitcher of margaritas, which we only slightly regretted when the 3:30 a.m. wakeup call came the following morning.

However, the warm Caribbean sun on our pastey legs followed by a burger and mojito quickly remedied our airport/margarita hangovers.

Each morning began in our little kitchenette, with buttered pan de agua, fruit and Nescafe expertly mixed by Mad.

Breakfast was followed in short order by lunch, which was always eaten outside. Here my sister had just ordered tacos de camarones y bistec at La B de Burro.

Because Mad is in the midst of learning French back home, every time she addressed a local during our trip, it happened in the following order: “French greeting, English greeting, apology, Spanish greeting.”

We always started getting peckish again around 5, which meant it was time for guava and/or mango drinks mixed with Puerto Rican ron and chips with homemade guacamole, which we ate out of a measuring cup because there were no mixing bowls in our apartment. (Once the proprietor found us a blender, the drinks improved significantly.)

When we didn’t feel like calling a cab to go to dinner, we’d fry up garlicky pork sausages and eat them on the patio.

We also frequented a beachfront restaurant called Pamela’s. Not only do you get to eat with your feet in the sand to the music of lapping waves, but all the seafood and steak dishes are fabulous. Churrasco pinxos doused in cherry BBQ sauce, marinated octopus and olive salad, mango-laced ceviche, calamari with aioli and Sriracha, and habanero seared mahi-mahi were a few of the dishes we tried. Each server had a different favorite, which they candidly plugged whenever we looked indecisive.

We made a single (fuzzy) friend in Puerto Rico, a stray dog who followed us up and down the beach and walked us home each day. We never found out his name, though in my mind he’ll always be arenoso, or “sandy,” because his fur was kind of sand colored and he was always covered in it.

Near the end of the trip, we spent almost a whole day traipsing around Viejo San Juan, snapping photos at Castillo de San Cristobal, the colonial-era Spanish fort, and meandering through the little city’s blueish brick streets lined with brightly colored buildings. Freshly watered flowers spilled from some buildings’ decks, while many others exposed signs of decay and neglect. The plazas pulsed with life–restaurant hostesses beckoned with calls of “Hola, hello! Lunch specials for $9.95!” Souvenir stores propped their doors open after a quick rain shower cooled the air, loud music blared from apartments above and locals wove expertly through hoards of sunburnt tourists fresh off cruise ships. My sister and I spent a long lunch at Toro Salao, drinking Coca-Cola Light and munching on paninis de jamon y queso on pan de mallorca, watching people pass (and quietly judging the tourists’ orthopedic-looking shoes).

We spent our last morning on the beach, our toes in El Caribe and SPF 30 caked on our burnt legs. As you’d expect, our flight home was delayed two hours. Te quiero, Puerto Rico. Hasta pronto.

As Michael Ruhlman says, “Saying there’s one authentic way to make carbonara is like saying there’s only one Italian dialect.” As simple a dish as pasta carbonara is, I’ve never had two that were the same. Everyone does it a little differently.

Hands down, the best carbonara I ever ate was during my 26th birthday dinner at the now-shuttered Cibo Matto in Chicago when Todd Stein was the chef. In his version–simply dubbed Bucatini–a glistening, orange duck egg yolk teetered atop a winding pile of super al dente bucatini flecked with cracked pepper, cheese and crisp, fatty guanciale. Sadly, I only got to eat it once, since the restaurant was open for just over a year and pretty much booked up every weekend.

In my little culinary universe, there are a few cornerstones that signify true carbonara: pancetta (or guanciale), eggs and Pecorino Romano (or Parmesan). Absolutely no cream. And no greenery. That means no peas, no sprinkling of parsley or chives–nothin! Save the greens for the salad course. And for that matter, keep your onion and garlic, too. To me, carbonara should be all about the starch, salt and fat–bound together using pasta water and egg. My ideal carbonara is also interactive, meaning everyone’s responsible for stirring in their own egg yolk.

It’s the unabashed–almost stubborn–simplicity of this dish that has made me so hesitant to post this recipe until now. But carbonara has become a staple in my house, and I stand by it. My carbonara is mostly adapted from Mario Batali’s wonderful Molto Gusto cookbook. In my version, I use half Parmesan and half Pecorino Romano and in an homage to Todd Stein’s fleeting Bucatini, I only make carbonara with bucatini pasta.

Bucatini carbonara
serves 4

1 tablespoon olive oil
8 ounces thick sliced pancetta or guanciale, cubed
Coarsely ground black pepper as needed
1 pound bucatini
4 room temperature eggs, separated
4 ounces freshly grated Parmesan cheese
4 ounces freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese

Heat a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottom pot over medium; add the olive oil and pancetta, and cook until the meat has rendered some of its fat and caramelized slightly, 5-7 minutes. Remove from the heat, and add about 20 grinds of coarse black pepper.

Meanwhile, cook the pasta in heavily salted water just until al dente. Drain it, reserving about 3/4 cup of the starchy cooking liquid.

Put the egg whites in a large measuring cup. Whisk in a few tablespoons of the starchy cooking liquid to temper them. Turn the heat on low under the pot with the pancetta and pepper until they just start to sizzle. Whisking furiously, pour the tempered egg whites and about 1/2 cup of the starchy pasta liquid into the pot. Dump in the pasta, tossing well to coat. Turn off the heat, and add most of the cheese and additional pasta water if the pasta seems dry. Work quickly, as you don’t want the pasta to cool.

To serve, divide the pasta evenly among 4 serving bowls. Carefully nest an egg yolk on top of each pasta pile. (I put each yolk into a small prep bowl before lowering it on top of the pasta.) Grind a little fresh pepper on top of each and sprinkle with a bit more cheese. Serve immediately, and instruct each diner to quickly break their egg yolk and stir it into the pasta.

In other words, this shit is taking over my life.

The Bulls probably aren’t going to win the NBA championship this year–the team has been riddled with injuries, starting with their star point guard and our city’s favorite athlete: Derrick Rose. But I have come to really love those guys–they’re scrappy, they win ugly, and their coach practically charges onto the court at least once every game because he gets so worked up. What’s not to like?

Last Saturday’s four-hour, triple overtime thriller in Game 4 against the Brooklyn Nets was partially responsible for me almost not finishing dinner in time to host my parents. Luckily, the Bulls pulled off the win 45 minutes before they arrived so Sean and I were able to shower. Plus, all the dishes I made were ones that could be prepped or finished in advance. The rice was cooked before tip off. Spiced chicken got a quick rub and went into the fridge during halftime. And the black beans were prepped during commercial breaks. It was the frenzied sort of dance only undertaken by a semi-unhinged fan.

That said, I was thrilled with how the beans turned out. I have been trying to master those soupy, Cuban-style black beans for years, and I think I finally got it. Lots of fresh chopped garlic, onion and sweet bell pepper, a splash of cider vinegar and a good sprinkling of Mexican oregano give them the right balance of flavors, and starchy bean water from rinsing out the can made the perfect broth to simmer them in.

Now that I’m winning at black beans, all I ask in return is that the Bulls win this series and make it to Round 2 of the playoffs. I’m fully ready to give up a few more weeks of my life if so.

Cuban-style black beans
Note: You can be extra authentic and buy black beans in their dried form (and use a few cups of the cooking liquid instead), but I just love canned beans. They are one of life’s great shortcuts.

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 small red bell pepper, diced
1 medium Spanish onion, diced
Salt and pepper, to taste
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 bay leaf
2 teaspoons Mexican oregano
1/2 teaspoon cumin
2 14-oz. cans black beans
1-2 teaspoons cider vinegar

Method: Heat a large, heavy bottomed pot over medium high, and swirl in the olive oil. Add the bell pepper, onion and a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Sweat the vegetables until they start to soften, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, bay leaf, oregano and cumin; cook for an additional 1-2 minutes. Add the black beans. Fill each can with water, swirl it around a bit and add that to the pot as well. Turn the heat up to high, and bring the mixture to a boil.

Reduce the heat to medium low, partially cover and simmer the beans for 20 minutes, until the liquid has reduced and thickened slightly. Add the vinegar, and cook for another 3-5 minutes. Check the seasoning, and adjust as needed with salt and pepper. Serves 4 to 6 as a side dish.

Note: Besides dipping Cuban sandwiches in them, my favorite way to eat black beans is spooning them over rice with a couple of fried eggs.

No matter how long I’ve been cooking, I still get hung up on what to make for dinner. My email archive has hundreds of self-addressed emails bearing the subject line “dinner,” with portions of recipes pasted inside like ripped virtual pages. I am admittedly pretty old-school when it comes to searching for recipes. I’ll pore through the indexes of my favorite cookbooks or I’ll conduct a blind internet search starting with a single ingredient or technique, like “chicken thighs” or “cooking with cast iron.” But sometimes searches begin because I bought something like ancho chile powder on a whim and then had no idea what to do with the whole jar.

This dish was inspired by a recipe I found on Epicurious.com for cumin- and ancho-crusted chicken thighs. I decided to add some ground coriander to the spice blend because it brings a nutty, curry-like note to the earthy spice of the cumin and chile powder. I rubbed the boneless, skinless thighs with the spices and some kosher salt, then marinated them in the fridge for 2 hours before cooking them in a super hot cast iron pan. The spices formed a gorgeous, toasty crust on the outside of the chicken, which was moist and very tender all the way through. I finished the chicken with a little sea salt for extra crunch and delicate saltiness.

I love cooking chicken thighs. The meat is very succulent–and forgiving if you leave it on the stove a minute or two too long. They also reheat nicely if you have leftovers.

Spiced chicken thighs

1/2 tablespoon ground coriander
1 tablespoon ground cumin
1 1/2 tablespoons ancho chile powder
1/2 tablespoon kosher salt
1 pound boneless, skinless chicken thighs
Vegetable oil
Maldon sea salt, for sprinkling

Method: Mix the spices and salt together in a small bowl. Toss the chicken in the spice mixture, rubbing the meat all over to ensure it’s evenly coated in the spices. Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours.

Heat a large cast-iron pan over medium-high heat, and coat it with a thin layer of vegetable oil. Place the chicken in the pan in a single layer (working in batches if necessary so as to not overcrowd the pan). Cover with foil and cook until a crust forms, about 5 minutes. Turn; cook until the meat is cooked through, about 4 more minutes. Transfer to a plate, cover and let rest for 5 minutes.

Sprinkle lightly with sea salt just before serving. Serves 2 to 3 people. Note: I served this chicken with Cuban-style black beans and white rice.

“Springtime” stroll

Try as we might, we can’t seem to shake the cold, gray Midwestern winter. Yet we see these hopeful signs of spring everywhere. Buds are showing on the wind-bent trees, fringey green grass is popping up in little patches, and restaurants are setting up their patio seating–though the chained up tables and chairs look more like prisoners than harbingers of al fresco summer nights. Yesterday, I was walking Penny in my winter coat and rain boots and I saw a single, sunshine-yellow daffodil standing straight up in a mound of waterlogged brown grass and rocky mud. It was as if he said: “Oh, fuck this. I’m coming out of the ground already.”

Good for you, daffodil. We need that kind of attitude around here.

Despite my general crankiness whenever anyone mentions the weather, as a cook I’ve been surprisingly complacent about this year’s nasty spring. I’m still clinging to wintertime ingredients, to the point where I’m actually laboring over them.

Take last Friday. I made pan-seared ribeye steaks and sauteed green beans along with a ridiculously labor-intensive potato cake. It took me an hour to clarify butter, peel and slice baking potatoes paper thin, and carefully place six layers of them in consecutively smaller circles in a cast iron pan. Then I baked the potato cake, took it out, flipped it over (which took two people to do, and we still lost a corner of it) and baked it again.

Why am I working so hard for a decidedly wintertime side dish in late April? Why didn’t I shell some lovely peas or whip up a watercress salad or steam some asparagus with lemon zest? Because it’s still too cold for that kind of food. Sean and I went to bed much warmer and happier after some read meat a few large wedges of potato cake.

Besides, the fact that it’s 40 degrees outside on April 24 tells me that we Chicagoans will be rewarded with a very long, hot summer. In my head, this is how weather works.

Anyway, I can’t complain too much because one week from tomorrow, my sister and I will head to Puerto Rico for five days of sun, elaborate blended drinks and–best of all–no coats! In the meantime, I hope your week is warmer than mine!

The weather in Chicago has been unforgivably bad in March and April. Last week, it rained every day and barely crawled out of the 40s. Then on Sunday the sun came out and the temperature reached almost 70. Everybody in the city was outside. So what did I do that day? I made this tart. (Yes, I also took a long walk with the Mister and the Peanut. But I really wanted to make this tart.)

As with any baked thing that contains a liquidy filling set with just a couple of eggs, I fretted. I must have peeked at it every 30 seconds or so after minute 25 in the oven. I may have even cracked the oven door once or twice to prod at the middle to see if it was still jiggly. The tart took longer in my oven than the recipe called for, just over 30 minutes instead of 25. But the end product was a gorgeous blend of crisp, crumbly pate brisee tart shell; spongy, not-too-sweet ricotta filling; and crunchy, toasted almond topping.

I added “lemon” to the recipe title (originally called ricotta and honey tart), since it feels a bit like an injustice to the lemons not to do so. The zest of four whole lemons goes into this recipe, divided equally between the crust and filling. It perfumes the tart with citrus-scented essential oils, giving it a wonderfully bright, springy flavor that’s not at all sour, since the juice is left out.

Ricotta, lemon and honey tart
from Chow.com
Crust

8 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 stick), melted
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon loosely packed, finely grated lemon zest (from about 2 lemons)
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed

Filling

1 pound ricotta cheese, drained overnight (Place the ricotta in a fine mesh strainer over a bowl. Cover it with plastic wrap and weigh it down with a heavy object.)
2 large eggs
1/2 cup clover honey
1 tablespoon loosely packed, finely grated lemon zest (from about 2 lemons)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup sliced almonds, lightly toasted

Prepare the tart shell:
Preheat the oven to 350F, and arrange a rack in the middle. Place the melted butter, sugar, lemon zest, and salt in a large bowl and stir until combined. Add the flour and mix just until a soft dough forms.

Evenly arrange small pieces of the dough over the bottom of a 9-inch round tart pan with a removable bottom. Using your fingers, press the dough to form an even layer over the bottom and up the sides of the pan, flouring your fingers as needed. Cover the tart shell with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Take out the chilled shell and prick it all over with a fork. Bake it for 25 to 30 minutes, until golden brown.

Prepare the filling:
Place the drained ricotta, eggs, honey, zest and cinnamon in a food processor fitted with a blade attachment. Blend, stopping and scraping down the sides of the bowl often with a rubber spatula, until the mixture is smooth and combined, about 1 minute.

Pour the filling into the warm tart shell, smoothing the top if needed, and evenly sprinkle the almonds over top.

Bake until the center of the tart is just set, about 30 minutes. Cool the tart completely on a wire rack before slicing.

Makes 8 to 12 slices, depending on how large you like ‘em. This tart is superb with a cup of coffee, but my mother-in-law thinks it also would be delicious with a glass of chilled moscato. Can’t say I disagree with that idea.

I’ve always had a soft spot for tuna salad sandwiches. I love that people a mile away know when you’re eating one and that you carry a faint tuna smell around with you for the rest of the day, reminding you what a great choice you made for lunch that day. After many years of tinkering, I have settled on what I consider to be the perfect tuna salad recipe, which combines celery, capers, scallions, grainy mustard and mayo. I like my tuna salad to have a little crunch and a lot of brininess.

Whenever I make tuna melts, I prefer them to be open-faced, so the cheese gets a little blistered under the broiler. This also makes it easier to add hot sauce, which Sean and I like to do with abandon. Don’t use water-packed tuna if you can help it. Oil-packed tuna has a much better consistency and texture than the water-logged stuff.

Open-faced tuna melts

1 8-ounce can tuna packed in olive oil, drained
1 stalk celery, minced
2 large scallions, minced
1 tablespoon drained capers
1 teaspoon whole grain mustard
2/3 cup mayonnaise
Salt and pepper, to taste
3 large slices country or rye bread (about 1/2-inch thick), lightly toasted
3 ounces sharp Cheddar, grated
Tapatio or other hot sauce, for serving

Method: Preheat the broiler on high. In a bowl, break up the tuna a little with a fork.

Add the tuna to a large bowl with the celery, scallion, parsley, capers, mustard and mayonnaise. Mix until combined, making sure everything is coated in the mayo. Taste it before seasoning with salt and pepper, since the capers are already salty.

Place the toasted bread slices on a sheet pan. Top each with a third of the tuna and 1 ounce of shredded cheese.

Place under the broiler for 2 to 3 minutes, checking frequently, until the cheese has melted and become bubbly. Remove and allow to sit for 30 seconds before slicing each tuna melt in half. Serve immediately, with a few varieties of hot sauce for dribbling. Serves 2-3, depending on hunger level.

I don’t cook lentils very often, probably because there are too many good Indian restaurants nearby that work fragrant magic on them for me on a weekly basis. But I’ll make an exception every once in awhile for this bistro-style French lentil salad, which couldn’t be further from spicy Indian dal. (See what I did there?) It is equal parts tart, savory and smoky–all things I love. It’s simple yet extremely satisfying.

I’ve often seen French lentil salad paired with a simple grilled salmon fillet, which would be delicious, though I like it best with a few hunks of buttered baguette for a comfy lunch or light dinner. The little green French (or Puy) lentils have a toothsome texture and earthy–almost minerally–flavor that works well with their flavorful counterparts. The best part is, aside from the bit of hunting you’ll have to do for the lentils, everything else in this salad is widely available all the time. Note: Don’t substitute brown or yellow lentils in this recipe; they’re too mushy when cooked.

Warm French lentil salad

5-6 pieces bacon
Extra virgin olive oil, as needed
1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped (reserve 1/4 cup for the dressing)
1 bay leaf
6 sprigs thyme, chopped and divided in half
1 1/2 cups French (puy) lentils, picked over for little stones
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1 1/2 cup chopped baby spinach

Method: In a heavy-bottomed pot, render the bacon slowly over medium heat until crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon, and set on paper towels to drain, leaving the bacon grease in the pot. Add 1 teaspoon olive oil to the pot, and turn the heat up to medium high. Add the chopped onion, saving 1/4 cup for the vinaigrette. Saute the onion till soft, about 5 minutes; then add the bay leaf, about half the fresh thyme and the lentils. Cook for 2 minutes, then add 3 cups water. Cover the pot, bring it to a boil and reduce it to a simmer.

Cook the lentils for 15 to 20 minutes, or until they’re tender while still maintaining their shape. Drain off the excess water, and remove the bay leaf. Check for seasoning, and adjust as needed. Set aside to cool slightly.

Meanwhile, combine the rest of the onion and thyme with the parsley, red wine vinegar, salt and pepper in a large bowl. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil, whisking constantly. Taste for seasoning, adjusting as needed.

Add the warm lentils and chopped spinach to the bowl with the vinaigrette, and toss to combine. Crumble the cooled bacon into small pieces and add it to the salad. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Serves 4 as a salad course.

There is a Thai restaurant in my neighborhood called Penny’s that Sean and I order noodles from every week. I almost always get the same thing, even though I routinely panic and launch into a little internal dialogue whenever I call them.

Maybe I should get something different this time! The BBQ pork noodles sound good! Or maybe the Thai fried rice?

“Hello, Penny’s Noodles! How can I help you?”

Nope, can’t do it.

“Hi! Order for delivery. Hot pepper noodles with tofu and a side of stir fried cabbage and tomato, please.”

Maybe next time.

The reason I have such a hard time ordering anything else is that those two dishes always deliver what I consider to be my essential daily flavor fixes: spicy and savory.

Take their beguiling stir fried cabbage and tomato. Slightly charred cabbage is cooked briefly with chopped tomato, a heavy sprinkling of black pepper, soy sauce, a drizzle of fish sauce, sesame oil and beef broth (I think). It has a flavor almost reminiscent of grilled beef, which I imagine comes from cooking it in a hot wok where lots of other glorious meaty things have been cooked as well. It is always impossibly hot when it arrives, swimming in that savory, fragrant liquid.

Since I don’t have a wok, I cooked everything in a cast iron skillet. I let the cabbage soften and caramelize with a sprinkling of sugar before tossing in the tomatoes, a dash of fish sauce, soy, black pepper, rice vinegar and beef broth. I finished the dish with a thin drizzling of sesame oil, then immediately began slurping it out of the skillet with chopsticks and a large spoon, burning my tongue in the process.

Stir fried cabbage and tomato
adapted from Penny’s Noodle Shop, Chicago

Vegetable oil
1 very small or 1/2 medium head cabbage, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon granulated sugar
2 cups chopped tomatoes (any kind works–I used cherry tomatoes here)
1-2 teaspoons fish sauce, depending on your preference
1/4 cup soy sauce
15 or 20 grinds black pepper
1/2 teaspoon rice vinegar
1/3 cup low-sodium, organic beef broth
Sesame oil, for drizzling

Method: Heat 1-2 teaspoons of vegetable oil in a cast iron skillet or wok over medium high. Add the cabbage and sugar and cook, tossing occasionally, until it has softened and started to caramelize, about 5 minutes.

Toss in the tomatoes, fish sauce, soy, pepper, vinegar and beef broth. Cook for about 3 minutes, to soften the tomatoes and meld the flavors. Drizzle very lightly with sesame oil, and cook for another 1-2 minutes. Check the seasoning and adjust as needed.

Serve in deep bowls and be sure to spoon some of that lovely liquid over the top for guests to slurp.

Serves 4 as a side dish.

My all-time favorite photo of Julia Child and Simone Beck, from “My Life in France”

Today I have to share something I read that tugged at my heartstrings more than I expected. It’s a list, posted on Lists of Note, that Julia Child sent to her editor at Alfred A. Knopf in 1960 of 28 possible titles she came up with for her debut cookbook, which we later came to know and love as Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

La Bonne Cuisine Française
In Love with French Cooking
The Love of French Cooking
Cooking for Love
The French Cooking Master
Cooking Mastery
Mastery of French Cooking (No “The”)
The French Kitchen
Food from France
France’s Food
The Noble Art of French Cooking
The Master French Cookbook
Great French Cooking
The Compulsive Cook
Cooking is my Hobby
The Hobby of French Cooking
French Cooking as a Hobby
School for French Cooks
School for French Cookery
A Course on French Cooking
The Passionate French Cook
French Cooking for Fun
French Cooking for Love
French Cooking for Everyone
Cook for Your Self a la Française
Mastering the Art of French Cuisine/Cooking/Cookery

I haven’t published a cookbook yet–it’s near the top of my list of ultimate dreams. What struck me so deeply about this particular list was the image of Julia, hunched at a desk with pen and paper, struggling to find the right words to sum up her 762-page tome introducing French cooking to American home cooks.

I’ve submitted many stories to many different editors in the eight years I’ve been a full-time writer. Sometimes the headline presents itself to me before I’ve even started writing the story. Other times I submit a headline I’m quite proud of, only to have it rejected within minutes. And sometimes I sit for hours in front of a finished, yet headless story that I can’t for the life of me figure out what to name. I close the document and come back. I try writing out headlines in pencil. I sleep on it. Then I submit something mediocre involving too many descriptors or a bad pun, forcing my editor to weigh in.

I’ve yet to tackle a headline for something as ambitious as a 762-page cookbook demystifying an entire cuisine, so I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for Julia. But I do know that the two hardest things about writing a good story are figuring out how to start it and end it. Although the middle is where the meat is, it’s often the easiest part to write.

So thank you, Lists of Note, for showing me that I have more in common with Julia Child than I thought. We’re just a couple of tortured writers, really.