ANDY WRECKER GREEN CURRY MEATBALLS

Let's all be honest here. Yes. Including those of us who say we love to cook, and would ferociously defend the legitimacy of home-making Turkish kofta platter, Taiwanese gua bao, or even Italian duck prosciutto, once in a blue moon at least, let's not kid ourselves. In practicality, the song and dance of travelling to exotic and exhilarating corners of the world through a dialogue in our own kitchen is, most of the time, only romantic in theory. At the end of the day, if you are any lucky, the flaming urge for such adventures mostly gets put out by a take-out menu amidst a stack of its own kind, that quietly settles in a kitchen drawer with can-openers and plumber-contacts. Authentic, or not authentic. Good, or no good. Doesn't matter. That's what normal people do. I used to be normal. Yes. I used to be normal in the sense that I too, raised healthy curiosity for all things exotic and delicious, which perhaps could even develop into a moderate ambition to dissect and tackle in my own kitchen. Perfectly normal and harmless because ultimately, just like any other sanity-abiding citizens,

X’MAS MORNING JERK-SPICED PORCHETTA

I recently took a class from Harvard called Science and Cooking.  I did it without ever taking an SAT exam or having an IQ above 140, all while wearing my slouchiest PJ and tucked in the comfort of my bed with a can of soda and a tub of gummy bears on the side, and burnt through 5 lectures straight in 1 week

pizza alla carbonara

You'd think that for someone who weeped slightly while watching SATC the-Village-wet-dream in her Vancouver apartment 15 years ago, and now replays movies like You've Got Mail the-Upper-West-Side-porn to ease her New-York-home-sickness, if now given the chance to move back to the city, would of course choose Manhattan in a heart beat. Well, almost. But the truth is, since 2006 when I was still dwelling in my 500 ft² apartment in Hell's Kitchen the-Midtown-nightmare, all I had my eyes set on was to move into a renovated loft (LOFT!) situated in the newly-hipster town across the river - Williamsburg. Yes, the other boroughs. You see, because New Yorker wears their address as part of their identities, and 55 Berry Street Williamsburg was humming to me on a very seductive tune. The too-cool-for-schools, the hipsters walking a designer stroller and an adopted pit bull, the vintage-bikers on the Williamsburg bridge cruising into sunsets, the L-Train patrons with awesome tattoos and really cool hats

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