Feed me.

Hello, world. At long last, Blogger has deigned to let me join my own (and Toby's) blog. Don't mind the drywall and unfinished countertops; we're still getting this thing off the ground. But, in the spirit of this whole idea, I couldn't wait to post. Why? I bought Kitchen Confidential yesterday. It was on a tragic whim: The Book Mark, a downtown bookstore I adore for its spare shelves, semi-friendly staff and impressive magazine section, is having a "Retirement Sale." For now, it's just 20% off; I assume the prices will shrink along with the selection as the end draws near.

But the point is the book. The damn book. I read 100 pages last night. Engrossing, obscene, endlessly fascinating (to borrow a NYT quote about the play Copenhagen, though I might be a little off) and almost enough to put me off some of my beloved fish. Elaine Brown, I salute you; If you hadn't been reading A Cook's Tour in Melbourne two years ago, if I hadn't been dating a Scot and thus picked it up and thumbed through, stopping at the haggis section, I would never have known to pick this one up. More, please, now. And as soon as we get through the first episode of the fifth season of Angel, I'll curl up in bed and get more. Which is not at all like it sounds.