For my father, it was a ding dong. Vegan and fancified with a swoosh of mulberry coulis, it was actually far beyond your packaged ding dong but it was deeply chocolate cake with a creamy center and a vivid, Proustian reminder of the pleasure of childhood. It was a gift of sorts, for eating a vegan meal. Granted, the five-course meal at Paradise Farm was a far cry from a heap of oversteamed vegetables, but you never know how people will find reward.
plate of f sauce, it
They were not so bad. Even if they were vegan.
I was sold from the get-go, but I’m the choir chefs Mark Zeitouni, Giancarla Bodon and Rafael Diaz de Leon were preaching to. , of Canyon Ranch. It was a throw-down.
Oh. You’re a vegetarian. Um, we have some lettuce. It had once been lettuce. Now it was limp and brown. I smiled and thanked them, because what’s the point in being a bitch (I’m not very good at it) This is not what you serve to your friends. On the other hand, when Catherine, one of my fellow volunteer instrutors at Common Threads, has working on perfecting her artichoke for an upcoming exam. She tested a couple yesterday. She gave me one. “I know you like vegetables,” she said. I do. And I was quite undone that she remembered I did and thought of me.
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