What’s the Deal With Christmas Cookies?

I should probably know this as an American. But I just don’t understand the whole Christmas cookies thing.

When I was five my mom revealed that Santa didn’t exist. She made me swear not to tell my Christmas-celebrating friends. Every time a friend mentioned Santa I would smirk, but play along. It’s not easy being a Jewish kid in a Christian world, but that little nugget of truth made me feel special during the red and green take over of December.

I like decorating trees. I like reindeer lawn scenes. I like eggnog. But I just don’t understand the cookie obsession this time of year.

Did it start with Santa’s present of milk and cookies?

Is it as an excuse to turn the oven on to warm a cold house?

I just don’t know. And would love to learn why.

(Photo: Greatest Time of the Year)

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Attack of the Meme: The ’90s Are Back

In times of heartache and unrest we reach for nostalgia to calm our shattered souls. And apparently the 1990s heals our collective hearts, as plenty of Boy Meets World and Family Matters references dot the internet.

But my favorite ’90s poster child is Daria and how she decodes the world via food.

3. Dating Advice

(Photo: Creestool)

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How To Do Small Plates. Hint, Get Rid of the Small Plates.

I hate small plates. It’s not that I don’t like trying tons of different items, it’s the actual accumulation of all of those fucking plates all over the table. Well, sharing sucks too. (It’s something I’m working on.)

While in Copenhagen this past summer my friend, and food editor of the Broward-Palm Beach New Times, Melissa and I found Pegasus. With no English menus, we let the owner—with limited English—half describe and half order for us. We discovered Danish small plates, but instead of being served on a million little plates it was presented on stately silver platters. We ate fantastic and smoky duck sausage, creamy cheeses, zippy mustard and loads and loads of dark rye bread.

It felt like a true feast, not this itty bitty finger food dining crap that is small plates.

After we befriended the rowdy table next door—who happened to be buds with the owners—we stayed way past close and learned the shady past of the dark-haired man who brought us our food.

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