If you want to give a chef a heart attack, the quickest way is not a beurre blanc, a hollandaise, or some other cholesterol-laden sauce, oh no. Just come home from the grocery store with a package of vegetarian italian sausages (tofurky brand, no less)(totally crossing that off the bucket list). Happily, Ryan survived the shock (and he didn't even have to eat one. I cooked him the real thing) and I survived a dinner which prominently featured said tofurky product. It was very bad. Really exceptionally bad. You can probably tell I'm still working through this experience.
In contrast, just a night or two later we had dinner at our favorite Nepali restaurant and I tried something called Malai Kofta, and Sweet Hindu God of Vegetarianism it was lovely. Pretty sure there's a lesson around the juxtaposition and the reasons for it, but it will have to wait til I'm in a more ambitious frame of mind, or you can figure it out on your own. Coincidentally at the Nepali restaurant we dined near our friend Eric, who is one of the three readers of this blog, and who recommends the happy pills. In light of how much I have not flung myself into pursuit of my new sport, I'm not ruling them out.
On the bright side, while at the Nepali restaurant Isaac did not pull down his pants, destroy any furniture, or maim any innocent bystanders. It was a good dinner.
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