One of my favorite things to do is hop on the treadmill at my gym, getting pumped for a nice 5-6 mile run, complete with elevations and surges, and pop on the Food Network (yes, I go to one of those fancy-shmancy gyms with TVs on every treadmill) to watch Ina smear some innocent bird with 10 pounds of butter, or Giada daintily mix three pounds of cheese into a casserole.

A tad incongruous, yes, but there is nothing I like better than working up a VERY big appetite (mine is quite substantial without the long run), whilst watching cooking shows and gathering ideas for that night’s supper.

There are certain kitchen tasks that, no matter how simple, always reduce my ego and perception of my own mental capacity to the size of a child. For example, basting a turkey…. It’s quite simple, really. You just dip the tip into some of the juice, squeeze the little rubber-thingy, and distribute the juice over the turkey. Simple, right? But, somehow, I always end up choking on the heat of the oven, bump my head tellingly against the oven door, can’t quite get the juice into the baster (at which point it makes that hideous slurp-slurp noise), jab at the turkey senselessly, causing it to lose far more moisture than I ever intended to put in, and usually give myself a nasty burn.