I once thought of myself as a damn good cook, back before the big revelation. I’d choose an entree—like the Silver Palate Cookbook’s Chicken Marbella or Costco’s butterflied leg of lamb—set a lovely table, zhush up my platters, and bask in the praise. Not, however, from my two young boys, who were wary of anything more complicated than hot dogs. Rory, our youngest, was such a finicky eater he earned the nickname Air Fern. Only one dish seemed to work for the whole family: a casserole made with refrigerator biscuits called Pizza Burger Pie.
Imagine my surprise when my boys grew up to be food fascists.
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