Dreamy dreams

I've been at this racket for about 6 years -- the writing about food racket, that is -- and it all came together for me last week. I got my dream job. Dream of all dreamy dreams dream job. Dreamy. Job. Pour moi. To say "over the moon" or "giddy with delight" says it but "crazy rocking out of my gourd ecstatic" might hit closer to the mark. I'm going to be the food editor at a beautiful national style and home magazine.

Taking a slight bite out of the glee is today's major dental and gum surgery. Hey, this food editor is going to eat room-temperature puréed foods for the next 2 to 3 weeks: how innovative and stylish. We begin with a room temp latte followed by room temp corn grits gooey with grated Cheddar. There's a pot of lentil soup burbling on the stove, and cheese soufflé will no doubt figure into the next 48 hours as well. All laced with regular lashings of Tylenol 3 of course.

But what a meal last night for The Last Supper. We sat at the zinc bar of the city's most perfect French bistro where braised rabbit with prunes and Armagnac (insanely rich, meaty-sweet and tender) became the Last Solid Food I'll eat for a stretch. Why is rabbit so rare on menus? It is patently superior to chicken in every way. I suppose rabbit is another one of those "meats" which verge too close to "pets". My lovely dinnermate feasted on veal kidneys: is that any worse or better? Delicious, fluffy bunny; tender, doe-eyed baby cow. Mmmm.