Idolatry Is Off The List Kids

This is me explaining idolatry to my daughter. “So God, Hashem, the most high hates the worship of false idols like Good Will Hoodie, Nancy Denture Breath Pelosi, Blowhard Trump, NPR’s inflated sense of self-worth because they don’t get paid hefty salaries for huge ratings, Planned Parenthood’s insistence on declaring it’s entirely your body without God playing any starring role in creating a smoking hot enough body, boasting swinging 36 D’s to get pregnant by mistake again.” Daughter says, “What if I want to get into Buddha?” I reply, “Only if you have a verifiable photographic memory. Plus, God has no problem with you incorporating meditation in your life.” Daughter says, “What’s meditation?” I say, “It’s a series of breathing exercises you do with your eyes closed to feel like a less all over the place Jew.” Daughter says, “You’re not very good at Mediation, are you Daddy? Fine, idolatry is off the list.”, Holla, thank you Hashem, the most high very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Pigheaded Jew

Whose more pigheaded stubborn the gentile or Jew? And I’ll take the Crusades 1 through 5000 Alex.   

But for some reasons Jews are always attacked for being the most stupid stubborn of the 2.  I thought we controlled all the world’s media messaging. I’m right, you’re wrong Christian Right country, sorry.

You want to talk about abominations? What arises more disgust, the Catholic Church never excommunicating Hitler or any Pope never excommunicating himself for granting pedophilia priests Nick At Night casting couch immunity.

You want to talk haughty.  What’s more ostentatious, Vatican’s party palace, Trump’s gold-plated hair dryer or Adam Sandler’s throwback Jam shorts on the set of Grown Ups 1 and 2?

You want to talk traitorous. Whose worse, fake news Christian Mike Pence for letting Democracy die on his watch or Obama Be Good who gifted Iran 150 billion to create overseas manufacturing jobs for Build A Bear to make their economy less reliant on the sale of face removal cream for the Kardashians? 

Growing up in a Kosher household, eating pork outside of it, wasn’t always a guilt free experience.  Even when I used to house my morning bacon, egg and cheese at the school cafeteria, I’d feel a tad dirty like the time I touched myself over my Everlast sweatpants in the nurse’s office as the perpetually busty Lauren Lighthall entered, with her nips fuller erect than my pubescent life shooter in the making at the time, knowing I still hadn’t gotten into the puberty party yet. So, playing with myself, resulted in me giving myself a reverse golden shower. I wouldn’t saying eating bacon was the equivalent to the dirty sensation of giving myself an accidental reverse golden shower at 15, up late after watching a steamy session of the Golden Girls, where Blanch tries out to be America’s next Jane Fonda, but the surge in icky guilt came close.

Jesus declaring all foods were clean had to piss off the pigheaded Old Testament God a bit, don’t you think? 400 years after God communicated the Torah in full to Moses on Mount Sinai, Jesus the frail carpenter admits out loud, “I need more protein in my diet and having to wait for a cow’s blood to be drained, is too much of a drain on my time already. Don’t worry fellow Hebrews. God doesn’t care if you break his Kosher law anymore. Accept me as the Son of God and your only means to get into Heaven. And you can eat pulled pork sandwiches in no go zone sections in Damascus, for all I care.” Holla, thank you very much.

Gentiles love their ham. It’s the chosen family tradition on Easter to prove they’re not pigheaded, stubborn stupid Jews, I get it.

Matthew was informed through a vison, declaring all pork Kosher in God’s eyes, assuming, you said grace, got baptized, ate symbolic parts of Jesus in Church, accepted him as your only possible messiah, thêreby gâuranting you a free pass into Heaven no matter what. Regardless, if you never repented or confessed to spreading intentional Jew killing blood libel about Jews being Christ killers because he was heckled to death by the devilish ancestry of Don Rickles.

While I’m on the subject of heckling, Gentiles don’t get enough credit for being the glaringly unoriginal hecklers. Jew Devil, Jew Pig that, although dangling bacon on poles in front of Jews in the streets of London when they had a Jewish Prime Minister in power for a bit, as a form of low budget, lowbrow Guerrilla Marketing used to promote the infinite goodness of the pork brain diet, wasn’t completely chop liver either.  Oh yeah, the other popular Jew heckle back in the day was Jews are descendants of pigs. Pigs are always being heralded as smarter than Ben and Jerry’s stoned out cows by woke white elitists.  So, I still don’t see how this insult is supposed to sting as intended. A Jewish doctor invented the polio vaccine and gave it away for free. Regardless of Hunter Biden getting paid 50 grand a week to jam nose candy up his nose, for what he thought was a sports energy company in the Ukraine, pushing borscht as the new Kombucha, makes him the greedier pig in this instance. Then again, Hunter never bothered to ask his baby mama strippers to get abortions, so he’s actually least likely to be excommunicated compared to pôps who off the record, insisted the hair on Jamal’s leg doesn’t make him a person in the annual profit and loss statement for the CEO of Planned Parenthood, sorry.

How does Farrakhan celebrate Holocaust Remembrance Day?  Spray Eli Wiesel’s Twitter page, with Termite Emoji’s from dusk till dawn.

How did Baby Face Omar acknowledge the death of Amy Winehouse’s death on Twitter? Did she call Amywinehouse a horn hiding devil spawn, who exploited the great Palestinian Song Book for all it was worth.

I can pick on my people to. For example, why do Jews think it’s kosher to eat non-kosher out of the home? Do these people, think, “Porking my wife with the lights on feels more off wrong to me, if I had to choose.”

What message was a gentile sending by throwing a pork chop against a Synagogue?  Costco is our Church of Later Day Saints to. So, we’ve got some extra loving grace to spare.

And why should I thank my in-laws for ordering pizza on my daughter’s birthday with pork on it in our Jewish home?  Should I feel blessed knowing my mother-in-law didn’t tag on the pizza box, Jesus Was Here?

Again, how are Jews more pigheaded stubborn than Gentiles exactly? It was the Spanish who pushed Jews to show a gesture of goodwill by eating pork in front of them during the Spanish Inquisition to qualify the seriousness of their conversion. Despite the converted Jew being picky pushy about it, asking, “Would it kill you to grab me some acorn fed Serrano Ham to nosh on instead?

Still, the smell of smoky succulent bacon in addition it’s divine blessed crispy crunch snap is hard to beat. Thank God, he invented vegetarians to resist Jesus’s instructions to give up pork skins for Lent in his honor centuries later. Who later invented Morning Star Veggie Bacon because they never got the delectable smells of brunch centric swine out of their system either.  The key to opening up all the full blossomed flavor potential of a Koshertarian BLT is to fry the veggie bacon in veggie oil at medium heat in your double handle pancake griddle.  Now, thanks to Jewish inventions such as greenhouse grown tomatoes, Koshertarian BLTs don’t have to limited to selling your spleen for some Heirloom tomatoes in July at your local Farmer’s Market during the summer only, having a blast, till major sticker shock ensues seconds later. Also, be at one with God’s graced earth, and use cut up pieces of leafy, sparkly shimmery sage from your garden to swirl into a bowl of mayo, salt, pepper and peeled garlic to make your bomb fresh, A plus, aioli mix.  

Personally, I like to use toasted country white bread for my kids Koshterian BLT’s because most wheat toast sucks. And New York Jews like are very picky, pigheaded Jewy about what bread we use or else we’d move to Scottsdale, Arizona and act like every day is Passover day, because the sunbelt was never chosen for endless, on-demand, baked bread delight.  Although one of my favorite memories is my 3 kids conducting a cherry tomato party in our garden with my smart phone flashlight last summer to use for our Koshertarian summer loving having a blast BLT special, which felt twice as blessed knowing how these balls of rounded, red cherry tomato perfection, derived from the earth amongst our home sweet, Koshertarian promoting home.

Michael Kornbluth

Cracker Free Casserole

Did you hear about Paula Dean’s new clothing line? What are they calling it exactly, Plantation, Nation? Holla, thank you very much. Ritz Crackers were never that special to begin with, let alone worthy to be the primo breaded topping on top of any casserole to mask the disgusting mishmash of green beans below. More importantly, looks play a huge role in whether your kids get excited to try a 1st dish or not and every casserole image on Google with crumbled Ritz Crackers on top looks like Garfield got a severe case of the runs, thank you very much.

The problem with most casseroles, whether they are inspired southern comfort food or not, is they look like premade frozen TV dinner meals for mass consumption on death row. And who the fuck puts spaghetti in a casserole? That’s like putting spaghetti on a Pastrami sandwich on rye and twice as gross. Obviously, when you’re not following Kosher law, Casseroles get a tad more interesting with the inclusion of chicken but unless you’re making Chicken Tamales, Chicken Parm within a casserole type shaped, dish, I’m not interested in your Chicken Noodle, Tortilla Chip, Hash Brown, amorphous, full blown schizophrenic Casserole, all over the place dump either. Also, your roasted veggie, broccoli, zucchini dump job with cheese with more crumbled Ritz crackers on top fails to give me enough woo worthy dinner substance to get excited about long time ever, holla, thank you very much.

And am I the only one who resents the term comfort food? In other words, nice hate hick. You might as well say, “Sucks to be living on the same budget from 78, holla thank you very much. Comfort food, you mean Southern staple dishes involving gravy, cheese, butter and a fried crust of some kind that you’re comfortable inhaling because they don’t infringe upon your spacious Farmer overalls, Spanx for Southern men who grow their owe ole-tomatoes and homemade wine because a country boy can survive. Hank Williams Junior lives, holla, thank very much.

I’m not trying to start a cracker fight with live off the land, Military serving, southern bad assess and southern belles who flocked to New Orleans for Marti Gras my sophomore year in college adding effortless grace, charm and wholesome, sensualized heat to anything in touch with their endlessly beautifying orbit. No, I simply want to retell a tale about perfecting perfection and using some southern inspired direction from Paula Dean back in the day, before creating my own Kosher Casserole Supreme, which also happens to be my 10 year old daughter’s favorite dish on this planet, which is nice work if you can get it. George Gershwin lives, holla, thank you very much.

First, softer the better and hard bites suck, meaning I make my Kosher Casserole Supreme with rigatoni, which isn’t al dente to add the much needed substance for a veggie laden casserole dish without it tasting like a late night, lazy brain uninspired microwave dish for practicing vegetarians like Malia Obama at Harvard University. Later, after sucking down some bingers, Malia admits to her freshman roommate, “Yeah, I get high with dad all the time now that he’s not President. On it, he sounds like a biracial, fake news deep Bob Marley.” Holla, thank you very much.

I also prevent my Kosher Casserole Supreme from being the same old casserole situation from blanching my broccoli in it, which entails boiling it before plopping into an ice bath to extrapolate its extra bright green emerald essence from within. I’m not high on extra strength weed from Northern Cal thank, I assure you, thank you very much. Did you know Hitler was born on 4/20? Talk about another glaring failure of our public school system today. I haven’t felt this betrayed since Sly Stallone snuck Mel Gibson into Expendables 3. Blanching rules, I highly recommend the experience, before sauteing your blanched broccoli florets into a butter olive oil mixed bath with red onions to add more well rounded, fleshed out primo green flavor.

Curious about the makings of more Kosher blessed casserole magic yet? Now, as much I like blanched Broccoli, which helps retain the soft yet firm texture without it becoming a stringy, mushy mess, the Kosher Casserole Supreme only becomes a crowd pleasing woo worthy favorite dish force by including the killer one 2 combo of Shitake and Oyster Mushrooms swirled into this irresistible never played out veggie mix. You’ll be spewing for more mushroom magic joy in no time. Splurging on mushrooms such as exotic Oyster mushrooms are always worth the extra expense, knowing your baby boomer mother would never dare spend 12 dollars on a cluster of meaty, head spinning good mushrooms draped in peeled garlic and butter, caramelized in nothing more than NY state tap water to take this Kosher Supreme Casserole dish so much higher. Sly Stone lives, through my star studded, mouth watering prose, deal with it Boomer, holla, thank you very much.

Also, use any kind of canned or boxed serving of mushroom soup other than Campbell’s for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, because Campbell’s Soup doesn’t make you feel superior to Hank Williams Junior does it? Then again, you’re not country music royalty, good friends with Kid Rock or ever penned legendary, hilarious songs such as Family Tradition or All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down. So you’re no in position to be feeling superior to Hank Williams Junior ever. So you can go woke yourself long time, holla, thank you very much.

Last, you can’t knock the cheddar just like you can write off Jay Z’s Empire State Of Mind as a mere cheap rip off, which exploited our post 9/11 stupefied, malaise for all it was worth. So resist using colorless, zero personality cheeses such as Monterey, Jack or the mass produced, generic mozzarella kind for your Kosher Casserole Supreme, unless you want to be the Drake of Casseroles, holla, thank you very much.

Never forget, extra steps such as blanching the broccoli and sauteing it separately from the mushrooms with the red onions are worth the mini time suck involved. Don’t let your wife or significant other inject doubt into your surging cooking level of creative genius either, come rain or shine. Frank Sinatra lives, thank you very much.

And if you don’t want your children to be in a perpetual bitch spat mode against each forever more, refrain from showing blatant, beyond palpable favoritism and instead focus that individualuzed ẻnergy on creating favorite dishes each one can fondly remember you by the most. It’s good work, perfecting your daughter’s favorite dish, if you can get it. I highly recommend getting your girl pregnant by mistake for the experience. Last, fuck plantation nation. Cracker free casseroles rule. So stop being a copy cat, wannabe refined Reese Witherspoon clone, and give the Koshertarian Diet a chance.

Michael Kornbluth

White Privilege Lasagna

Lasagna, I don’t care who makes it, is normally a soupy saucy, droopy, ricotta plopped, dumpy looking mess. For a native New Yorker like myself, I always saw Lasagna as a tourist trap order like peep shows in Times Square in the seventies or apartment rebates in Manhattan today, offering zero deposit and the 1st 2 months free, since the greatest city in the world turned into an office space ghost town. Also, if I have to hear one more story about some NY transplant renting out a million-dollar mansion in South Carolina to conduct Zoom meetings in splendid, far more spacious isolation, I’m going to drive our family SUV off the cliffs of chained, middle class fixed insanity.  

Lasagna isn’t the most versatile dish to serve after winter either. I’d rather blow my calorie intake on hop forward pilsners and 4 sipper watermelon beers from 21st Amendment from San Fran during the heat of the night this coming summer than get weighed down by a dish full of heavy melted cheese best suited for a shittier Godfather remake in the making. And how exciting is the standard ground meat stuffing offered in most Lasagnas? If I weren’t eating Kosher now, I’d prefer a bomb meatball parm hero from Carmines off Broadway, over their ground meat crumbled lasagna any day of the week because you’re getting far heartier, tastier, meatier loving bites. I also write a gay food blog for closeted married men with kids called, “Meatier, The Better.”

My wife made lasagna in the past with tofu stuffing inside, which is as arousing as it sounds. Tofu has no place in Lasagna. It’s more out of place than a Guido with a tan line in South Beach on Spring Break, holla, thank you very much. Outside of dumping on the totality of what this fabled, old school Italian dinnertime dish classic has to offer, I’m going to spotlight a superior alternative that I learned to make from the domesticated goddess of home hearth enhancement Martha Stewart, The White Privilege Mexican Lasagna.

You know your White Privilege Mexican Lasagna is a hit, when even your normally snooty, compliment free mother-in-law feels compelled to compliment it 2 bites in, uttering, “This is very good. You’re making my daughter look like a slacker lazy brain in the kitchen. She’d thrown in the towel 50 rolled perogies in for our next Uki church bake sale guaranteed.”

I’ve futzed with the Martha Stewart recipe over the years, yet my strongest batch of White Privilege Mexican Lasagna used white corn tortillas versus the standard corn tortillas, which tend to lean more toward the grating side in comparison like COVID Loonies who insist on wearing their masks in the car versus others willing to pull it down on the elevator alone to suck their thumb for added comfort.  

You sauté the black beans, red onions, and jalapenos in vegetable oil 1st, before spreading them into the casserole dish with layered mini flying saucers of white corn tortillas, layered, with shredded pepper jack cheese and Monterey in addition to homemade salsa made from cherry tomatoes, 4 jalapenos at least, cilantro, red onion, and plenty of lime. I’d buy two batches of cherry tomatoes for the salsa topping to maximize maximum spreadage like Katy Perry hoisting up her pushup bra equipped with multiple party screamer kazoos attached on the tips. Also, use 2 rectangles of Monterey and Pepper Jack from the Cabot cheese company or else it will taste like a cheeseless White Privilege Mexican Lasagna. You might well add some tofu inside and commit an Asian on white priveledge Mexican Lasagna hate crime in the process.

My 7-year-old son asked for 3rds, which was unprecedented like George Lopez doing 5 minutes of straight of stand up without spicing his set with some Spanish in between to keep it cornier yet earthier real Holmes.  White Privilege Mexican Lasagna won’t stop Asian hate yet the more we embrace culturally rich cuisines outside of our preconceived prejudices, the less clannish will act at home and out.  Last, beating up on Chinese Grandma isn’t a good look thug lives matter. JR Smith doesn’t even find the act cute. But at least JR Smith has an NBA ring and earned the right to party topless in Vegas for 3 days straight. At the same time, nobody thinks picking on Asian granny requires courage of any kind and nobody is ever confusing your disgraced nuts as Thinking Balls to devise your new 5-year masked mugger plan with. You’re offended? Good, go woke yourself to. That’s the way the Fortune Cookie crumbles.

Michael Kornbluth

Bad Boy Soy Boy Strikes Back

Once upon a time there was a biracial Korean and Jewish kid from the Riverdale section of the Bronx named Steven Park, who his friends called Bad Boy Soy Boy for unleashing his Nunchucks of fury at a block party on a bunch of black gangbangers who wore the same wife beater, corn rows and cut off jean shorts, looking like they were dressing up for Coolio Appreciation Day, who dared to call him a COIVD chink in his midst ever again, as he cracked one skull in 2 after another without breaking a sweat in a NY Minute. Son of Sam in the seventies was scary no doubt, but the surge in hate crimes against Jews and Asians in the boogie down Bronx Jersey City around the Island of Manhattan were at an all time high with no relief or added protection in sight.

Cops today, were younger, softer, and far less hardcore than their 9/11 predecessors, nobody in the force today has the balls to make on the side like 99 percent of the force in the movie Serpico. Bail was banned in NY, garbage filled the streets, rats grew the size of Lena Dunham during Restaurant Week after challenging Leslie Jones to a Junior’s Cheesecake off. But even these woke large in charge funny woman, couldn’t believe what a scary shithole their cherished concrete jungle of yesterday had become in 4 years flat.

Crazy talk slogans punctured the air such as, “Ban ICE”, because homeland security was so weapons of mass destruction years. It’s no excuse to mug Chinese grandma in Chinatown, yet the Wuhan made virus, had made New Yorkers at large crazier than ever, placing misplaced faith in a news media hellbent on feeding more unregulated hate and fear into the nation about black men in America being America’s most hunted, despite not one enlightened BLM member encouraging their fellow brothers to just stop resisting arrest, God forbid.

Every day, Bad Boy Soy Boy worked at his parents deli in the South Bronx, despite living in the leafier, more snuggle soft confines, of Riverdale in the Bronx, where abandoned torched, burnt down buildings to salvage a semblance of ROI from the insurance company were less common than a B plus Korean student at Bronx Science.

Bad Boy Soy Boy had to bite his lip at the deli every time some brother would come in there talking endless shit, yelling, “COVID Chink, this, COVID Chink that,”, despite him being fucking half Korean and half Jewish. It didn’t make a difference because cum bucket dumpsters such as Cardi B today were deemed heady, culture enriching, poets from the street, whose gaping, sloppy 3rds snatch couldn’t be beat, allegedly.

But one day Bad Boy Soy Boy, decided enough was enough, so he opened a medicinal speakeasy weed milk bar in Bergen, New Jersey as a front to offer Nunchuck self-defense classes for Asian Americans based in any of the 5 boroughs willing to make the schlep to fight for their life to live out the protracted, rapidly fading American dream with a semblance of peace of mind as they raged, raged against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas lives, holla, thank very much.

Now, Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class, became the number one tourist destination in Bergen history, not that there was stiff competition in this department. But Bad Boy Soy Boy had a college roommate from UPENN who he’d talk to on the phone every day who worked as a rock star chef for a Korean food truck in old city in Philly, known for their Korean eggroll cheesesteak hot pocket breakfast treats that had to invest in a bullet proof vest covered food truck in what was once the only really safe area in Philly outside of center city on Chestnut street. But safe spaces for Asian Americans were now deader than Jeremey Lin’s chances of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated 7 times in a row again, especially since JR Smith bitched to Knicks management about the golden child Harvard grad who plopped in their lap out of the freaking blue, because he was hogging the Garden spotlight and bike lane all for himself.

Asian Americans including Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, who never bothered to study martial arts, thinking, it wasn’t necessary to learn from 1994 to 2020, were flocking to Bad Boy Soy Boy’s Self-Defense Nunchucks Of Fury class. Bad Boy Soy Boy’s grandfather, Michael Kornbluth was a Holocaust survivor because when all the brown shirt ANTIFA members of their day banned guns, he used his own Nunchucks of fury gifted to him from his Korean father in law, and cracked NAZI skulls hyped on crystal meth all his way to freedom from Nazi persecution in NY to later establish a family of his own with his former reflexology wife therapist as a proud 1st generation deli owner, getting Jewish New Yorkers hooked on Kimchee for more reasonable outs to ever slip their wife the tongue ever again. Both young and old Asian Americans no longer had to live in helpless, paralyzed fear, all thanks to Bad Boy Boy Soy Boy teaching them the infinite beat down possibilities, using the all mighty Nunchuck strikes of fury to ensure they were never fucked with again in the name of the COVID Chink virus or not, because Bad Boy Soy Boy was on a mission from God to prove Bruce Lee’s weapon of choice, is nothing to fuck with.

The End

Michael Kornbluth

The Secret Of My Soy Boy Success

Soy Dogs, get lost, not interested, they possess zero snap, never looking healthy, resembling flaccid impotence to me. I don’t care if you microwave Soy Dogs in a wet paper towel for 1 minute or throw them on the grill, the saved points on Weight Watchers aren’t worth the taste of boundless, zero thrills yuckiness throughout. Plus, soy dogs on the grill burn faster than Hitler’s desire to annihilate whenever his old school herpes sores pierced through his precious stash again. When the best thing you can say about a Soy Dog is, “I like the Ketchup on it, because if I ever needed a palate cleanser to erase the depressed, doughy, middle-aged malaise I’m trying to desperately avoid right now through forcing myself to eat this rubbery fake news conjuring hot dog, it’s now.”

But soy dogs aren’t reflective of the flavorful, absorption potential of soy either nor do soggy soy dog links compare to the scrumptious, splendidness of Morning Star’s soy nuggets, which got me into adopting more soy-based meals into my diet. I even put my sales hat on in Morning Star’s honor and sold the shit out their soy based frozen products on my own mock advertising portfolio for junior copywriter roles after my daughter was born, when my Stay-At-Home Comedian journey began, such as Morning Star Nuggets, “So Good You’ll Eat The Crumbs”, which I also billed as the “Best Piece You Never Had.” My favorite print ad in my portfolio was reserved for breaded Morning Star burgers: Fuss Free + Guilt Free +Mess Free=Zero Regrets.  Soy Dogs were a long distance memory now, offering less titillating interest than Hello Kitty trying to lip-sync Surrender by Cheap Trick for Karaoke Critter Appreciation Night.

There’s a vegetarian restaurant by NYU called Bamboo, which does tantalizing, recreationist wonder with soy, especially in the form of fried chicken replication, somehow magically transforming soy into real deal Holyfield tasting fried chicken, compelling even Iron Mike back in the day to chew off more than a nibble, passing the bad boy soy boy test in my book, holla, thank you very much. Again, Guilt Free +Fuss free +Mess Free= Zero Regrets, especially, when A) You get to devour huge mounds of protein rich soy based fried chicken, without feeling like a lazy brain, fast food junkie whale B) Don’t have to concern yourself with breading anything or worry about the concentrated shots of estrogen in the soy based fried chicken, knowing your 9-year-old daughter has nothing to bare upstairs yet. Plus, if my daughter fills out like mommy, chances are she won’t become another busty beauty like Jennifer Tilly. And C) It’s impossible to regret ordering soy based fried chicken when it tastes like an airy light version of the real thing, especially knowing that a block of soy was never a living breathing, claustrophobic, nerve damaged chicken who died of a heart attack the time Pedro Martinez showed it a cockfighting fight on YouTube to see if Chicken Little was ready to fight up a weight class after he promised to pump  her up with chicken liver schmaltz hormones with his signature breaking balls speed.

I got my 2 boys into soy dogs for a bit, before I introduced them to the highly superior Hebrew National Jumbo Dogs, draped with spicy brown mustard, whenever we ran out of ketchup again, because I plopped out every last drop to make soy dogs still eaten by daughter on occasion, edible tolerable, from start to finish.  Last night, I decided to slay Tofu The Terrible again and make my best batch of Golden Child Tofu Pitas, made in a yummy, barbeque sauce, consisting of fried sweet red peppers and red onions, promoting my daughter to declare, “Daddy, I want the recipe for your Golden Child Tofu Pitas. Eddie Murphy lives, through a random, yet not direct quote from the Golden Child, which is “I, want the knife”. What Gen X Dads understand, holla, thank you very much.

First, you must dehydrate the soy wrapped in paper towels to soak up all the water weight lost from a hilly, 45-minute Peloton ride through a no-go zone in Germany, holla thank you very much. Then, you must cut semi substantial squares of dehydrated soy to fry up in vegetable oil later on a high flame, only to be a tad fussy about using thongs to flip over each golden child cube of glistening perfection over individually to ensure the golden-brown crackling crust or else the soy cubes resemble deflated, smooshed, pieces of torn of airplane pillows.

But make sure to caramelize the red peppers and red onions separate 1st, before mixing it with the too cool for school golden child cubes, which you must splash with soy sauce throughout to give it the much needed salty, funky kick throughout if you don’t want the bubbly soy pieces to taste like chewy, flavorless soy gum either.  

Adopting soy into your diet won’t be life changing but you’ll be amazed at soybeans potential for recreationist splendor, where the thought of soggy soft day afternoons, fade faster than Daddy, next time his kids try to show him what lunch they’re making for Hello Kitty on their Amazon Fires Tablets next.

Never forget. Guilt Free +Fuss Free + Mess Free= Zero Regrets. My 7-year-old son caught a kid in his class cheating off his math quiz at school, but my son isn’t Chinese. So if my son takes after me at all, I’m not as mathematically challenged as I think.

Michael Kornbluth

Mind Of An Egg and Cheese Man

Being a native New Yorker I always detested the putz in front of me who ordered a roll with butter at the deli. It was always hard to restrain myself from yelling, “That order, never went out of style, a roll with butter. Then again, that order never had style.” My attitude is either order an egg and cheese at the deli or not, although I still got grief at the deli pre-COVID whenever I’d order an egg and cheese without specifying the inclusion of crispy, crackling, bacon or not, before I became a full time practicing Koshertarian Comedian. Deli guy asks with bemused matter of fact disgust, “That’s it, just an egg and cheese, no bacon? I snap back with, with equal matched pissed, ball busting fervor, “Yeah, egg and cheese only. Is my hangover order not manly enough for your standards, Dominick I Ain’t Fag Scholanti? And why don’t Italian Guidos get credit for being the original metrosexuals of their day? My people the Jews, didn’t keep Tanning Beds R Us in business throughout the eighties and nineties, no did we dare spike our hair, in pink polos in candy necklaces on spring break in Cancun, until Guido nation made it popular first. Eighties Guido Italians ruled the fashion scene back in the day. Even tough guy sounding Italian Jews like Andrew Dice Clay would pronounce in the eighties loud and proud in front of a sold-out Madison Square Garden, “Anna Wintour, I fucked her, oh. Who cares if she looks like an albino ET in a wig and Stella McCartney shades? Oh, I can’t take no more.”  

The everlasting allure of delis for New Yorkers, isn’t the random, mishmash salad bar, unless you’re a colorless, hipless, Research Analyst for JP Morgan Chase who’s never passed out on the couch without brushing her teeth first. New Yorkers native or adopted, don’t love their bodegas or delis for their normally bland, too chunky, mayo-soaked chicken cutlet on a day-old Kaiser roll either. New Yorkers love their delis and bodegas, New York lingo for 24/7 open degentrified delis in reverse, because of the revered, never taken for granted, egg and cheese order, without having to specify roll ever or sandwich. Unless you want to be a totally tubby bitch and overcompensate for not eating bacon anymore and ask the pretty chesty, Italian Deli owner, in Duchess, County, who matches your flirty gaze every time, to make your dare I say egg and cheese sandwich on a sesame loaded hero, role with 2 slices of American cheese, salt and pepper, no ketchup, but some hot sauce on top and I’m in heaven, inhaling it with ravenous delight in my car 2 seconds later, at one with this ingenious breakfast start me up creation, wanting to shave with it, if I still shaved on a regular basis, feeling it’s presence nearer, as we press cheek to cheek, Irving Berlin lives, holla, thank you very much.

Last night, I spotted a leftover brioche roll and decided to make my daughter an egg and cheese sandwich this morning to earn her respect and appreciation for the holiest of holiest NY Institutions, no not UCB or the People’s Improv Theater, but a bomb egg and cheese, which makes commuting to the city a tad more tolerable and exciting, despite Manhattan being deader these days than Kurt Cobain’s shot at still winning father of the year. Post COVID or not, not every major retail institution in Manhattan was bound to go under sooner or later such as Century 21 by Ground Zero, still can’t call it the Freedom Tower Memorial Square Park, sorry. But it would get fucking super weird fast, if all the delis and bodegas in NY started dropping like flies. New York City running out of delis and bodegas to order an egg and cheeses is like McDonald’s running out of soda or BLM running out of excuses to riot or commit more hate crimes like killing happy spewing Asian sex workers in Atlanta because white supremacy turned our cities into safe space sanctuaries for Thugs Lives Matters most, got it.

Understand, I’ve already gotten my 2 boys into the egg and cheese, yet my daughter has been less an enthralled because my versions have been too “eggy” for her taste.  So, this morning, I became determined to win my daughter over with the everlasting allure of the scrumptious, cheesy, mac daddy, egg, and cheese. The Egg and Cheese is so New York, Weird Al would’ve given it a plug in the Eat It Video, if he didn’t grow up in Downy, California, where your only breakfast grub options are breakfast burritos, which don’t tumble onto your plate in an avalanche of disorganized smutz if you’re lucky. And good luck finding a deli or bodega of any kind in LA that makes an egg and cheese past last call at a hard 1 in the Land of Blue Balls Strained Dreams. Sure, I can wait 5 hours to be seated at an airy, sunny, brunch spot, around guys twice as good looking as me who never struggled to fit into a size 34 in their life, only to blow 15 bucks on an egg and cheese with freaking arugula, spicy mayo, more Italian fontina freaking cheese and extra thick cut Berkshire bacon, but I’m not a working actor in SAG or a sitcom staffed TV writer in the WGA either just yet, so that fantasy equipped with a personal trainer to help me slip into a pair of semi tight, grey jeans with a 34 waist for more killer stand up sets at Improv on Melrose isn’t happening tomorrow for me either. And our comedy clubs even open in LA these days? Imagine Dave Chappelle drop by the Comedy Store on Sunset, scan the crowd for a second and blurt out, “I’ve been selling out the Apollo since I was 19, what’s this 50 percent capacity shit? Who do you think I am, Cedric The Entertainer? Holla, thank very much.”

The Egg and Cheese is a NY Institution like 24-hour Greek diners frequented by your little Greek Landlord and pick up street ball games where the brothers call fake news fouls only against less athletic white boys when the game is on the line. In short, I’d fail as a proud New Yorker Dad for letting my daughter give up on the egg and cheese so soon. It would be worse than me letting her tune out Nasty NAS on Illmatic, his 5-star masterpiece according to the Source, the hip hop Rolling Stone, after the album starts a tad snoozier slow than you recall like the start of Spies Like Us, despite those killer rhymes being tougher than Dice, holla, thank you very much.

In the end, I fried up an American cheese omelet in a non-stick pan, always the best, plopped it between a fried-up brioche roll in butter with some semi-generous sprinklings of Frank’s Hot Sauce, the training wheels of hot sauce on top and my work was done. My daughter was sold on rock steady allure of the greasy, bustling, NY Institution classic. Egg and Cheese Merchant institutions in the forms of last standing delis and bodegas in NY City, my city, who come in all colors and sizes, will never die like the Goonies, unless they do some shitty remake with Juno playing the lead for diversity dividing sake.

Michael Kornbluth

Fussy About Fungi

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth

Uncomfortably Queasy

Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX.  In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie.  Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.

So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”

Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all.  So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend.  At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.

My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.

I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection.  The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.

I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.

Michael Kornbluth

Uncomfortably Queasy

Weekend memories of my mom’s Kraft Mac and Cheese don’t fill me with comforting ease. For some reason, the mere image of a half-eaten bowl in the sink gives me imminent deathly chills inside, like the time I started pissing on myself after snorting Crystal Meth prior, thinking it was just exceptionally pure, uncut Cocaine, because after only 1 line, 5 hours later, I kept pronouncing out loud to myself, “This shit is great”, like a coked-out Tony Tiger used to bad coke which tastes like chalky AJAX.  In my mom’s defense, she worked full time as a Loan Officer for JP Morgan in Manhattan, so I can’t blame her for mailing it in on Saturdays by throwing together some Kraft Mac and Cheese, knowing my dad’s half ass, serially undersalted, sickly looking, off yellow, scrambled eggs made before Basketball practice on Saturdays weren’t filling me with unconditional lovely cheer either. Again, I can’t totally shit on my parents half-hearted weekend creations in the kitchen throughout the eighties and early nineties, because Brunch wasn’t a thing yet, nor was any craft put into making mac and cheese from scratch yet, using a plethora of fancy foreign, pricy cheeses such as specs of imported Parm, always sultry smooth Italian Fontina or rind free French brie.  Lobster Mac and Cheese wasn’t conceived yet by some fabulous, brunch visionary hot spot restaurant owner in West Hollywood who longed for something dreamier to sink his teeth into at noon on a Saturday hungover, basking in the gorgeous LA patio sun after being burnt out on being reared on fried egg topped cheeseburgers from Fat Burger in Van Nuys as a kid, who shared less in common with Adam Carolla growing up, than the Wheatgrass bartender for Jamba Juice.

So, for Super Bowl Sunday this year, this old G, decided to make my own Mac Daddy version of Mac and Cheese, to make my 3 Koshertarian kids yell with unmatched glee, “Party time, excellent, I feel the funk.” Not, “Who’s that black chick with Austin Powers in that commercial Daddy? Is she a mini me version of Queen Latifah? I don’t get it.” My plan of attack was to create a Mac Daddy and Cheese that wasn’t to cheesy like the Phantom of The Opera halftime show, because nothing screams half time entertainment more than a bunch of jilted, creepy looking dancers in masks putting on a zero thrills production of Phantom Of the Opera meets Friday The 13th during the year of COVID 19, which has unmasked all the propagandists in the media, who prop up fakes news working class heroes such as Bruce Springsteen who blames his manager for never paying taxes till he got on the cover of Times Magazine after Born To Run blew up but I digress. Bruce pretended he was on Acid to avoid being drafted yelling, “War, what’s it good for? Besides fodder for my upcoming Born In The USA album, about my fake news brother who dies in Vietnam. Does your office look like Salvador Dali took a giant kaleidoscope shit on your desk? And why does Uncle Sam keep pointing at me? It’s not my fault Sandy is a miserable, knocked up diner waitress, who was born to cry in the dark and die alone in the Swamp Thing State.”

Still, the Super Bowl is an American tradition, so I based my Mac Daddy and Cheese dish around the east coast standard, always unifying, pretentious free, yellow Landa Lakes American Cheese. Understand, my wife openly detests American Cheese because she’s a more evolved hick who grew up in the hinterlands of Brisbane Australia, who grew up playing with mud in the yard, knowing she only grew up with 2 TV stations in the outback and if you’ve seen one episode of Astro Boy, you’ve seen them all.  So, making my star standalone dish for Super Bowl Sunday based on yellow Landa Lakes American cheese required some level of American made balls, knowing what potential, all knowing resistor fury, lurked in the nearby distance as Tom Brady continued the greatest winning streak in life ever recorded, which helps when you’re reunited with the always reliable Gronk, as your go to, money in the bank, tight friend.  At the same time, I didn’t want the American cheese to be the sole attraction, similar to The Weekend surrounding himself with the most unattractive, peaceful protestors against the savagery of self-esteem enhancing plastic surgery within the Sunshine scurrying state.

My kids love Broccoli, like myself, assuming you make it with love, destem all the florets, blanch them in a bucket of ice water you’d pour on Bill Parcels if it was made of Gatorade back in the day, before I sautéed them in a butter, high end olive oil, sliced shallots and peeled off bits of garlic, to ensure the gorgeous flowers of green, matched the intensity of hop forward wonderfulness of my pounded 90 Minute Dog Fish IPA prior, which took me only 9 minutes to finish my second.

I used pasta macaroni shells from some Italian pasta maker, which cost 3 buck max in addition, made a basic bechamel, including, butter, flour, milk and spicy brown mustard to help the green goodness stick together with the torn-up bits of American Cheese and olive oil massaged Mac Daddy shells, which looked like glistening tubes of inhalatory perfection.  The only complaint I received was Daddy using a tad too much fresh ground pepper to spice things up, beyond memories of boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese, which are too uncomfortably queasy to replicate for the mere ease of convenience sake for my taste.

I’m not going to call my Mac Daddy and Cheese the Tom Brady of Mac and Cheeses, although my 4-year-old son continuing to polish off his bowl even after his mac and cheese cooled is still sustained excellence in my book to.

Michael Kornbluth