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Not long after I wrote “Eating Outside the Box,” I decided to do a little experimental cooking. Truthfully, most of my cooking qualifies as experimental. My mother didn’t fail to equip me with common sense in this arena, but I did fail to store that priceless tutelage on something more permanent than mental RAM.

Every once in a while, I spoil myself with terrible food. That’s not to say the food tastes awful—though sometimes that’s true. I mean terrible from the standpoint of what my brain thinks about what my belly wants. It’s a war that usually ends in a stalemate; my belly feels the pang, but my brain won’t condone the notion.

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