I will probably regret this. I haven't written here for almost a week because I've been cooking—testing and retesting recipes for a magazine project—which might seem like a contradiction for a blog that is even vaguely about food, but—and here I realize that I am probably shooting myself in the foot, or the skillet as it were—can anybody possibly be interested in what goes on in my kitchen? My friend Sara Foster wrote me last week from the Bahamas, where she was on some sort of junket with a bunch of food bloggers. These lucky bloggers were there in the Bahamas because they are at the top of their field, which is amazing to me. First, that food blogging is a field. And second, that the people at the top of it, almost without exception, follow the same formula: Several days a week, they write and post pictures of what they have cooked and eaten. I'm not sure what I am doing with this blog or why I'm doing it (and I have mild regret over it on an almost daily basis), but I cannot imag ...

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Consider this a cry for help. Alice is coming to dinner. What should we serve? No, this isn't a riddle, or even a hypothetical question. This is a problem. (I mean, if you can call it that.) I'm talking about an evening in the near future where Alice (those of you to whom this desperate cry is directed know who I mean) is expecting to arrive at a certain place at a certain time for a casual, intimate at-home party, where she expects to be served food. And we—that's Nancy and I (Nancy and me? Oh, copy editor, where art thou?), who came up with this brilliant idea after the fund raising dinner I put together for Alice's causes in January ("Wouldn't it be nice if she could just come to my house?" Nancy said. "Without it being some big shin dig?")— want everything to be perfect. The problem is that we want each last detail from the candlesticks and the dinnerware to the farmer who grew the lettuces and the grain (or grass) ingested by what ever animal we muster up the courage to throw on ...

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