By Ann Brenoff
I love good food. To me, heaven is a bowl of home-made pasta tossed with fresh garlic and olive oil and some properly aged cheese grated on top. While I’m at it, let’s wash it down with a good wine and a slab of hard-crusted baguette lathered in European sweet butter. Sure, you think I should eat a salad? I’ll do that too — and no, I don’t want the dressing on the side.
I am a foodie and I hate January because everyone around me turns on my beloved. Food was the handsome stud that you frolicked recklessly with in December but come January, you demonize and blame for everything from your jeans not zipping to the new water-retention bags under your eyes. You join gyms and single-handedly cause Weight Watchers’ stock to rise; you skip meals in January and eye every carb as an email from the Devil saying he’s waiting for you on the Dark Side. Enough, I say.
Me? I love food. I love it 12 months a year, including in the month of January. I love Godiva chocolates at Valentine’s Day, butternut squash with tart apples and maple syrup in October, and sweet-butter poached Maine lobster prepared at the French Laundry with arrowleaf spinach, parsnips and saffron-vanilla emulsion absolutely any time. Yum.