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Imagine waking up one day to learn that your small
intestine can’t take it anymore; that wheat, barley, and rye are the
enemy; and that you’ve got t
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I will go out on a limb and assume that those who
bother to read this here column understand and acknowledge the following
statement: In the world of doughs and
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I’m a firm believer in signs from the universe.
Nothing is a coincidence. We meet people for a reason, even if they cause
us pain and heartache. We fall i
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Chico was just some guy I had heard about through my
friend Karla. An Aztec dancer living in San Francisco, Chico
had blown into Washington for a
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I’ve got a newcomer in my culinary bag of
tricks, and it’s so clever, I feel like a genius. I can’t take
credit for such brilliance, however;
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I grew up in the 1970s, also known as the “good
old days,” when eating in a restaurant was a special event, like
going to the circus. Fancy restaura
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My friend Maura is far from a cook. She’ll tell
you so herself. But a baker? Damn straight. So what if she’s a
one-hit wonder — Maura makes so
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My friend Nan in Chicago made one. So did my mother,
who lives in Pennsylvania. All across America, womenfolk were baking pot
pies, and I was their preacher.
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I have a recurring dream that puts me in New Orleans.
In fact, I have the dream often enough that I honestly can’t remember
exactly when I was there last.