Also, I love the idea of no food shopping for seven days. During the time saved I may write a novel. Should the heroine be a disheveled out-of-work book critic germinating rhubarb seeds* in her living room, or a lithe redhead prowling for a mate in pre-meltdown Manhattan?
Really. You think?
Another also: I've picked the next cookbook to review, which is Fat by Jennifer McLagan. I flipped through it yesterday and it's irresistible, full of challenges and novelty and humor and delicious-sounding food that is a little weird, but not (to me) off-puttingly so. The first meal I want to make will consist of marrow bones, steak and kidney pudding and brown butter ice cream. McLagan's introduction: "Jack Sprat was wrong!"
My kids will be dismayed. I think crabby Regina Schrambling would approve of my screw-the-kids approach to cuisine. I'm not sure even I approve of that approach, but why change horses.
One more thing: This post about Alice Waters/elitism/food policy is fascinating and super-smart. Especially the last line.
*they live! I have nine tiny rhubarb plants. I wish it would warm up so we could move this awkward operation outdoors.