It was Valentine's Day, so of course I started thinking about who I hate. (As a sidebar, I recently told my literary agent I would like to write a book listing all the people in the world who have been mean to me, crossed me, betrayed me ... and he said he didn't think it was a book people would actually want to read. But wouldn't you want to?) I was also thinking about what I hate.
I hate my agent. I hate those predictable lists of edible aphrodisiacs—oysters, chocolate, avocados, blah blah. I am starting to hate Amanda Hesser, the trendy tweeting uber-brand: "When Jenny doesn't have all the ingredients to make the Flirtini, she goes rogue. http://bit.ly/do1gBF."
Of course I hate the International Luge Foundation at the Olympics for writing some long-winded thing about how it was that poor Georgian luger's fault and how it wasn't the course. I would hate my ex if I cared enough. And on the culinary front, I hate the butcher at Whole Foods who really did butcher a leg of lamb and gave me unusable bony fatty cubes for my "No-Fail" Marcella Hazan Lamb Stew with Green Beans. (How do the Top Chef contestants find good butchers there? I would like to point out that you never see them shopping at my Whole Foods in the Time Warner building at Columbus Circle.) The same Whole Foods where the pointer-guide once said to me, "this Whole Foods is the worst in New York. Customers just can't seem to figure out the lines." Which, p.s., have changed about 10 times in the last six months. Okay, so actually go ahead and put me down for hating Whole Foods.