Yes, it's a pretext for rationalizations on the nutritional merits of eating pistachio ice cream.
It's also a good reason to shave and go on the air to raise awareness about Dave Bailey's restaurants and some of the delights we serve.
http://fox2now.com/2013/02/26/national-pistachio-day/
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Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Wounded Beauty: the Backbone
Wounded Beauty part 2
What I have heard for years about Shun knives is: they cut true. I am in a position to agree. But why do they perform so well? Any knife geek can tell you that a good edge makes a good tool. But it's the backbone and handle of the Edo knife that elevate it in my experience.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Wounded Beauty
Have you ever had to care for something that needed your help, but that scared you to even touch it?
Back in 2001, in Minneapolis, a woman sat down on the retaining wall in front of my apartment building sobbing. I had never seen her before. No one from my neighborhood, she was clearly hurting and had no place to go with it but the public sidewalk. I was coming down the stairs to get on my bicycle, and I felt moved to do something. Or rather, I became rooted in place, unable to walk past her and go about my business. I sat down on the wall a few feet from her, gathered up my courage, trying to think of a response to her unknown grief. Eventually, I moved closer to her, said hello, and put my hand on hers where it rested on the stone. She looked at me, apologetically, ashamed maybe of being in such a state. It was hard to look at each other, but she gripped my hand and then it was easy to just say reassuring things.
"You're not alone. You can survive. Do you have somewhere to sleep? Do you have anyone to talk to?"
She nodded, couldn't speak yet but nodded clearly. After a few minutes, we had one more mutual hand-squeeze and I got up, unlocked my bike, and went to work.
What reminded me of that encounter was the weird thrill of a situation that arose last week. Luckily, in this case, the wounded beauty that came to me was merely a knife.
Back in 2001, in Minneapolis, a woman sat down on the retaining wall in front of my apartment building sobbing. I had never seen her before. No one from my neighborhood, she was clearly hurting and had no place to go with it but the public sidewalk. I was coming down the stairs to get on my bicycle, and I felt moved to do something. Or rather, I became rooted in place, unable to walk past her and go about my business. I sat down on the wall a few feet from her, gathered up my courage, trying to think of a response to her unknown grief. Eventually, I moved closer to her, said hello, and put my hand on hers where it rested on the stone. She looked at me, apologetically, ashamed maybe of being in such a state. It was hard to look at each other, but she gripped my hand and then it was easy to just say reassuring things.
"You're not alone. You can survive. Do you have somewhere to sleep? Do you have anyone to talk to?"
She nodded, couldn't speak yet but nodded clearly. After a few minutes, we had one more mutual hand-squeeze and I got up, unlocked my bike, and went to work.
What reminded me of that encounter was the weird thrill of a situation that arose last week. Luckily, in this case, the wounded beauty that came to me was merely a knife.
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