Ciao Mister Macaroni
I’ve whipped up a little paglia e fieno with the traditional flourish of peas and a hint of gorgonzola; this is to introduce my new blog The Fettered Gourmet. I’m leaving my post as food critic for the Druidical & Literary for both personal and professional reasons. My scandal ridden roman a clef is making the rounds in New York; after Lydia Careerbreaker tasted my Burgher Deluxe she waved her no unsolicited proposals rule and read my pages con brio. This is how I do things; this is why I am Mister Macaroni.
Not that she wasn’t critical. My seduction of Paris Milton above the bullpen in Yankee Stadium contained several improbabilities according to her trained eye. When she suggested it was the seventh inning stretch many of the manuscript’s problems solved themselves. Her “Plum Sykes meets Yogi Berra” tagline is sheer genius. She said my work made her think of Rick Moody, Italo Calvino, Maeve Benchy, and JD Robb. Those are some great ballplayers.
Of course my home in Wellington Leg is for sale. What with rising interest rates and a looming bubble I’ve been baking cookies. My realtor is worried that scouts from the Vicesima Claudia legion are camped nearby; hey, it’s a green belt. No one is greener than Mister Macaroni. My car has a sunroof.