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The Bittman is a source of contention around here. Me, I don’t think much about The Bitt one way or the other. I never read The Bitt’s Minimalist column with regularity and have never understood the cult of his personality. He’s just a goofy white guy who mostly cooks off-book, right? Who can’t do that? Buy whatever’s wholesome and on sale, go home and Google “easy [something you just bought] recipe,” pick the one you can fudge the best and make. (At least, that’s what I do.)
(Having said that, my new love is Gojee.com, which lets you search blogged-about recipes by ingredients you have/crave/dislike. And I’m not just saying that because this blog is included in the new Gojee Drinks database!)
Anyway, Sean hates The Bitt. What Sean has to say about The Bitt is, “He’s just annoying and he seems like a hack. I don’t understand why anybody cares what he has to say. I do not trust his authority. I feel like anyone could be Mark Bittman, he just happens to be the one, probably because he knows somebody or various other social injustices.”
Yet I couldn’t look away when a recent Bittman headline in the Times touted “A Radical Rethinking of Thanksgiving Leftovers.” Just how “radical” were we talking here? Well, The Bitt had me at “pan-fried stuffing cakes,” and so I read until the end, where I was rewarded with the notion of a Cranberry Negroni. Or really, tortured by reading in print that The Bitt had come up with a way to sneak a cocktail into his list of 20 radicalizations, and WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT, DAMMIT?! DAMN THE BITT!! (I’m not the only one who feels this way, either.)
Readers, I know I walked out on you six weeks ago sans peep, leaving you high and dry (literally) like a (figurative) con man who says he’s just stepping out for a pack of smokes, and I apologize fully and sincerely for the subsequent dormancy of this blog. Know this, though: That whole time I was gone, I did not cheat on you. Not ever. Not once.
Sure, my crazy, overpacked life since early May has included a cousin-in-law’s Vermont nuptials complete with top-shelf Knob Creek behind the open bar; the debut of a wine bar and beer garden directly across the street from my apartment (the night they opened, they served me a cheese plate that contained a pat of butter disguised as a slice of white cheddar, and yeah, I bit into it, but you know, bygones); a random tipsy game night here and a solitary evening at home with a bottle of wine there. But no cocktails. I really went well over a month without drinking a proper cocktail. So what I’m saying is, maybe I’m an ass for disappearing like that, but I’m a faithful ass.