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Ach, poor Jonah! I could never ever never ever ever be a vegan (for some reason, certain people assume crunchy-cons are by nature tofu freaks; perish the thought!). Tofu shmofu, have you ever had farm-raised eggs, scrambled, with chorizo sausage? As Jerry Clower used to say, “Haaaaw! Gloh-ry!” I almost want to take the train down to DC and cook the first meal you will have after breaking this draconian, Mordor-inspired fast. Actually, I just want to cook. And eat. I am reading the most wonderful, cheering, get-thee-behind-me-January book: It Must’ve Been Something I Ate, a new collection of journalism by Jeffrey Steingarten, the robust and high-spirited food columnist for Vogue (who knew they had a food columnist?). If you like to eat well and unapologetically, you must have this book. I’m afraid my comfort-loving, hobbitish nature is coming out as I enter early middle age. About the only TV I watch anymore, aside from the news channels, is The Food Network. I can’t get enough of it (except for Iron Chef, which is so last year, and Emeril Lagasse’s program; Emeril seems like a nice fellow, but that “Bam!” shtick sours my stomach). If I won the lottery, I’d go to cooking school and become a food writer (look for my piece in the new NRODT on the way onerous health regulations stifle small farmers and traditional food production). Basically, I want to be Jeffrey Steingarten when I grow up. I gave up on The West Wing this season, but if they do episode about a State dinner, somebody give me the high sign.



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