When my grandmother died, I claimed her punch bowl in the reflexive way I say 'yes, please' to pie on Thanksgiving. I'd admired its pumpkin shape and pretty red teardrop design my whole life. From its position atop the silver chest in my grandparents' dining room, it had presided over countless family Christmases and birthdays. We never drank from it, but I imagined that tiny-waisted ladies wearing wide poodle skirts had. In its hollow chamber, I heard the echoes of fabulous parties past. [...]

read "Bowl Season"

[...] Resisting the temptation to open that bottle for so long will pay off, you tell yourself. You can practically feel the oaky, berry, hint-of-chocolate taste of success on your tongue already. Au contraire. [...]

read "Myth Buster: Wine Improves with Age"

[...] "If you look at the packaging on some of these [organic] products," says Fantle, "it's rather ridiculous. You've got on the milk carton a little farm with a stream, a red barn, a couple of cows standing out on grass. That's just not the reality of how that milk was produced." [...]

read "What's in the Beef?"

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