I am not a cook. I don’t like to cook. Because I don’t like to wash dishes, and cooking always entails washing dishes. I also don’t like to eat with other people. I like to eat alone, sitting on the foot of my bed, watching "Law & Order." To me, nothing is worse than sharing a meal. It is one of my many charming neuroses, right up there with my index-card fixation and the bad naps (today I took one while listening to Wagner and had a nightmare that my paper on the Marquise von O had to work Wagner in). 

So it is highly "ironic," in an Alanis-Morisette not-really-ironic-and-mostly-just-pathetic sort of way, that my one and only literary journal publication consists of the sandwich recipe I printed on this very blog a year ago. Now the journal, Alimentum, has been reviewed by Poets & Writers, and of all the legitimate writers with real food literature on the masthead, the editors chose to highlight/mock the one thing I’ve ever cooked.

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