Beyond that, however, I am forcing myself to log some serious time at the farmer’s market/Trader Joe’s/Fresh & Easy this weekend, mainly because THERE IS NOTHING TO EAT IN OUR HOUSE OTHER THAN A JAR OF CREAMY PEANUT BUTTER AND THAT’S HALF GONE.
My grocery habits have always been a little schizophrenic, the inevitable result of treating food as sources of income and pleasure rather than, you know, nutrition. When I cooked for a living, the only reason I would pick up a frying pan at home is to attack burglars. (I did roast a goose for Thanksgiving, the better to give my chef a pint of goosefat as a Christmas gift.)
After I became a restaurant critic, my refrigerator was an ever-changing landscape of doggie bags. I neither shopped nor missed home-cooked meals, mainly because I began to wonder if I ever wanted to eat again.
Today, I have a job that has nothing to do with restaurants but I still get to think and write about food and eat even more. Nonetheless, I have either forgotten how to buy groceries or I have become agoraphobic.