Perfect Eggs, Undercooked Grief, and the Ghost

Anthony wasn’t wrong.

I think about that quote a lot—usually when I’ve made the most perfect eggs ever... and also when I’ve managed to glue them to a non-stick pan like a war crime.

Was he ever wrong? Well—let’s just get it out of the way. Yes.
That damn jackass left us here alone with mediocre travelogues and bad eggs. I don’t know how you’ve managed your grief, but I’m just now, years later, getting to the acceptance part. Or maybe I’m still in bargaining, and this newsletter is proof. 🤷‍♀️

Wherever we are in the stages of Bourdain-related grief, it’s time I actually cook from his recipes. Am I going to compare them to my own tried-and-trues? Hell yes. And I’m hoping with all my heart that his win—every time.

God, I love that asshole. And I miss him. Let’s have some fun in his honor.

🍽️ What’s for Dinner?

It’s Friday afternoon. Good Friday, technically. Easter is in two days, and children everywhere will soon be consuming vast amounts of bad chocolate while their parents pretend not to know better.

But I’ve got other things on my mind. Company’s coming. And this particular guest is a gastronaut.

When he visits, I usually plan elaborate meals involving something smoked, slow-cooked, or large enough to terrify a vegetarian. But this time, I’m opening Anthony’s cookbook, Appetites.

If you’ve read it, you know—Appetites is full of the food he cooked for people he loved. Dishes with soul and sauce and stories behind them. After his daughter was born, Anthony basically became an Italian grandma who wanted to feed everyone who walked through the door.

Food was his love language.
Is his love language.

I don’t really want to talk about him in the past tense. He’s still very much with us. With me. And food is my love language, too.

So this weekend, I’m eyeing the lasagna bolognese.

Will I find chicken livers and ground veal in town? Maybe.
Wild boar? Absolutely not. Wrong part of the country. Here, we’ve got wild lizards.

The chicken pot pie is also calling to me. So is the macaroni and cheese.

And then I read the intro to the mac & cheese recipe on page 128:

I still have a bottle of the stuff. It does indeed smell like gasoline. I used it once, maybe eight or nine years ago. At least the tin looks cool.

📬 Talk to Me

Next week, I’ll report back on how the dinner went, what the guests thought, and what Anthony’s ghost had to say about the whole thing. Probably with pictures. Possibly with emotional damage.

Got a favorite Bourdain dish? Want to suggest what I cook next?
👉 Just hit reply and tell me—I’d genuinely love to hear.

In reverence and rebellion,
Michelle
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