I have an open kitchen in our New York apartment. It’s perfect for me
because I like to be at the party while I’m cooking—rather than boxed
away in another room, away from the fun. I’m an actor, after all – an
entertainer; I want to be part of the show, out in the light – not
backstage
toiling in the dark.
However. There’s always some bozo – I’m sorry, did I say bozo? I meant
some charming dinner guest – who comes over to shoot the breeze just
when I’m about to perform a delicate, crucial step – like tasting the
pasta for doneness. This is a holy moment, a private moment that demands
the cook’s full attention and focus; because if the pasta goes past its
moment – even just a few seconds past — it becomes a mass of wormy,
mushy crap and you may as well toss it. But inevitably at that moment,
as I’m fishing out that first, crucial strand to taste …
“So, Michael, two Jews go into a bar. You know this one?”
“Not right now.”