There were non-stick pans of fury a flying at 236 tonight. On the right was Baleen with the Williams-Sonoma all clad wondrousness; on the left, Hopalong with maybe the last remaining durable good from when he lived in a small one-bedroom apartment with a rickety bed and postcards from multiple zip codes on the wall. It was like it was October 19th all over again.
Baleen, imitating her unborn son, had a meltdown after finding out Jacques Pepin still had the edge despite his forty year head start while accusing my omelet of being better not because of technique or anything I did, but because my pan was already hot from having cooked the leeks. Maybe she's right.
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