I’ve been told by a good friend, and trustworthy cook, that my bolognese is the best that he has ever had. If you knew my 6’5” honest to a fault friend, you would know that these words are to be taken as a compliment of the highest order. He is tall, can fill a room with laughter or fear, is brutally candid and equally kind. There are many reasons to love him, including the fact that he almost always picks up the phone when I need his advice. When we were on the phone, some weeks ago, before I left NY, we were catching up. Shooting the breeze about colonoscopies and the weekend. He said “We had dinner at a friend’s house. It was nice. He made bolognese. But it was no Tinamarie bolognese. I’ve yet to eat a bolognese that was that good ever again.”
Read MoreIn a celebration of food and friendship, which if you ask me is the me is the main reason to revel in every day we’re blessed to be on this earth, last night I made soup for dinner. Not just any soup, but a soup that harkens the fondest of childhood memories alongside my mother and father in an old world Brooklyn that no longer exists.
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