Turkey loaf, instant mashed potatoes and a can of Reddi-wip are all you really need for a bona fide Thanksgiving.
By Garrison Keillor
The pleasure of fine dining has pretty much worn off for me, I must admit. I realized this the other day when I sat in a French-type restaurant and gazed at the menu and felt a craving for a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of chili. Not a gourmet chili made from beans imported from Chile but the kind that comes in a can, thank you very much. The kind you used to get at Woolworth's lunch counter.
I look at the hundreds of cookbooks in our pantry -- Julia Child, Marcella Hazan, James Beard, the Moosewood Collective, Craig Claiborne -- relics of a former life, back in the '80s when men who were bored with dirt-track racing and elk hunting discovered that you could lord it over other men in the kitchen, and cooking became a macho event.
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