Deviled eggs and sticky toffee pudding? Yes.

Two summers ago, after a year of freshman comp teaching and a life-changing decision to move across the country, I developed an anxiety-related skin condition. I’d suffered from stress-induced breakouts before, and I knew getting rid of this one would call for daily exercise, lots of vegetables, and diligent water drinking. Instead of doing any of that, I went to a dermatologist, got a prescription for an antibiotic, and took it every day for two months. As it turns out, this was not such a good idea.

I didn’t know it at the time, but even as the Doxycycline was clearing up my breakout, it was killing off the good bacteria in my intestines that helped me break down and process food properly. One night after taking my dose, I found myself hunched over the toilet in my apartment, vomiting up my dinner whole. A few days later, I had to swing across three lanes of Los Angeles rush our traffic to throw up by a tree in a Ralph’s parking lot.

I’d started the pills in June of 2011 and I took them every day until the end of July. By September, something as little as a sip of water left me feeling like the monster from Alien was about to birth itself through my belly button. Garlic fries at dinner meant a night on my knees on the bathroom floor. The prospect of the holidays, which I usually spent with my boyfriend’s family outside Boston, became suddenly horrifying. Things went on more or less like this for over a year.

I'm hungry.

Grist has a recent article about the rise of community-supported agriculture, and how the rise has made some small farms become bigger—not industrial big, but medium-size, and what this means for people who want to support small farms.

I love that Chang can take such a common, cheap food item and turn it into gnocchi. It's so brilliant.

I liked the fried chicken better when I didn't pay for it.

Everything I know about restaurants I learned from Jonas M. Luster's Quora answers.

Dana Goodyear’s New Yorker piece on underground supper clubs is great fun, even if you, like me, thought supper clubs were just a thing cool people did in LA and San Francisco and Brooklyn, like, five years ago. They are not! They are alive! They are THRIVING. They are a thing cool people do in LA and San Francisco and Brooklyn NOW.

They cost $90 a person, give or take, cash, placed in “a desiccated crocodile head that sits in the middle of the table.” They are not a place to get rich, if you’re the one doing the cooking, but they are a place to break even.

So when my friends and I walked over to the TGIFridays next to our hotel this weekend for a quick bite and drink, we weren't expecting much.

But feel free to give me all those scallions you don't want to eat from your CSA box. I love scallions.