We are sharply divided over this dinner chez TNS.
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Actually, I probably am. I choose to ignore it.
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Kill my finances, that is. Sorry, no Christmas this year; mommy spent all her money on pre-cooked and shelled fresh lobster meat. Thank god I don't actually have kids.
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They've got a crunchy topping!
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I should have liked this more than I did. I think I'm due for a truly stellar Smackdown next week, between this and the quail.
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Fine, you can stop hounding me. I'll tell you how I came to flip Rocco DiSpirito the bird. I gotta tell you though, it's not really as exciting as you'd think, assuming you're the kind of person who thinks flashing the one-fingered peace sign at pseudolebrities is exciting in the first place.
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Oh, Bobby Flay. You continue to flog your bold Southwestern flavors and chile oils to within an inch of their lives on Iron Chef America, but damn if you don't put together a tasty plate of food.
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I should know better than to be fancy; it totally backfires. This looks completely twee. I should know how to play to my strengths by now, those being "heap crap in a bowl and put a [sprig of appropriate herb] on top." I diverge from that, I end up with a dish that could be the photo on a Lean Cuisine box. Sad, because this dinner deserves better than that.
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I've been sitting here for over an hour, meaning to start writing but unable to look away from the Tour de France. I think Alberto Contador is a punk. Yeah, I said it. I hope Andreas Kloden waits until the Tour is over and then pops him right in the nose. I challenge you to fisticuffs, sir.
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So everyone was all, like, "You have to get A Platter of Figs, it's the best new cookbook ever, it babysits my kids and re-caulked my bathtub and helped me lose 47 pounds in 7 days without even trying." And I was all, like, "I'm not spending thirty bucks on a book with a recipe for tomatoes that is 'slice tomatoes and sprinkle with salt, the end.'" I'd spend twenty on that book, tops.
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