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Hi Reader, If you think I was uninterested in the Super Bowl, multiply that by 10 when it comes to March Madness. For years, I honestly thought it was a term to describe the lunatic March Hare in Alice in Wonderland. Wrong!Whenever I attended a March Madness event (read: kidnapped by straight-boy college friends), I hovered dangerously close to the snack table. Give me a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke, a ridiculously large bowl of potato chips, and Lipton Onion Soup Dip, and I can grit my...
Hi Reader, Every time I cook seafood, I’m yanked straight back to the Massachusetts shoreline in the '70s—a slightly chonky, anxiety-riddled kid trying desperately to pass as someone who actually belonged among the fishermen. I had the walk down, or at least my version of it: a slow, rolling swagger I imagined said I know my way around a lobster trap. In reality, if some guy had tossed me a pissed-off two-pounder with its claws cocked and ready, I would’ve screamed like a Chihuahua puppy. And...
Hi Reader, Every March, I feel the same creeping pressure: the world goes emerald overnight, and suddenly I’m expected to be half-Irish, fluent in jig, and able to turn every dish a festive shade of green. Meanwhile, my actual Irish experience begins and ends with a wool sweater that makes me itch and an ill-fated attempt at Irish soda bread that could’ve been used as a doorstop.Still, there’s something irresistible about the promise of St. Patrick’s week—that blend of comfort, carbs, and a...