...And He's Just as Good in the Kitchen, Too

(Editor's Note: We at NBLB would like to apologize, in advance, for the explicit adult content contained in this entry - and in particular for the improper conduct of the blogger in question, an unmarried woman who is otherwise regarded as a fine and upstanding member of the community when not pre-occupied with scandalous entertainment in her free time. If you find yourself being offended by this entry at any time, please feel free to browse our archives - or better yet, wait until Meimei finally recovers her composure, so you can go ahead and nag her about that pile of Christian-relationship books that she keeps saying she's going to write for us but never gets around to doing so in the first place. Thank you for your kindness and understanding.)

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Dear Dave Lieberman:

Let's get one thing straight. The main reason why I borrowed Young and Hungry from the library had nothing to do with all the great recipes made from fresh, affordable food for people like us on a budget. To be perfectly frank with you, I've actually gotten lazy with the cooking lately, and it's not like I'm going to have the best occasion any time soon to, say, use a spice rub or whip up a gigantic (but beautiful) potato-herb omelet for brunch.

What I'm telling you here is that the real reason why I borrowed the book had everything to do with the pictures. No, I'm not talking about those pictures - although I'll have to admit that this is pretty damn sexy, and this nearly made me drop my fork. (And let's not even get me started on this slutty little number, shall we? Not to mention this, which I am sure would be of interest to Happy Scribe's husband...)

You know very well which pictures I'm talking about, Dave. You don't even have to try and pretend that they never happened, because it's all in the book.

(Wait. Here's the part where I'm supposed to post those pictures I'm talking about - the more incriminating, yet fully clothed, ones where you're holding up produce like you're about to tempt your readers. Unfortunately, the just moral laws of Internet property rights prevent me from posting them on this blog entry... so read on.)

All you have to do is smile at me like that - yes, like THAT (you bad boy, YOU!) - and you've reduced me to rubble. But then you go ahead and pose for those pictures in your book with your food, like a frat boy's mockery of Nigella Lawson. You're killing me, Dave. You have no idea what that does to me, do you?

Oh, don't give me that look now, Dave. You didn't just have me at "hello." How could I not love a full-blooded American male who's a self-taught chef and capable of making the most beautiful salads on this God-given earth? (Yes, I know you employed a professional stylist, but I don't care - besides, it's not like the average man notices when women who pose for FHM are Photoshopped within an inch of their lives, correct?) How could I not be swayed by someone who could make three kinds of tapenade - or even pronounce the word tapenade correctly in the first place - and still shamelessly admit to using yellow cake mix and frozen croissant dough?

And what about that one Christmas break when my Mom and I watched you make that bacon hash on TV? You should've seen the horror on my Mom's face when she realized that you were making hash out of bacon - bacon! - when you should've been doing that with corned beef in the first place. Did I care that you could have killed me with all that fat and sodium? Oh, hell no. The only way you could've made me a happier woman that morning was to throw in some chocolate-covered bacon on the side.

Don't even think about giving me that excuse about the Food Network honchos trying to pass you off as the American Jamie Oliver. As far as I know, you're not married, and freelancing as a personal chef in New York. You went to Yale, for crying out loud. You could just show up at my doorstep in a chef uniform and still get me hot under the collar. Heck, at this point I'm not even bothered by you being part-Jewish (and, if rumors are to be believed, deeply conflicted over the fact) - because I'd be more than willing to feed you all the prosciutto that your heart and soul can handle. Literally and figuratively.

You know what I want, Dave. The champagne's in the fridge. The bacon hash is on the stove. You know where to find me.

XOXO, Meimei

ps. And regarding Dave's Dinners (hee, "dinners") - mark my words: you know I'm gonna be all over that sucka as soon as I get my hands on it at the Barnes & Noble.