http://www.nypress.com/articles.sec-15-1-columns-ny-life.html For now, you need to know that I finally uncrated my Cuisinart. It was a mechanical marvel. With it I created hummus, curry paste, fresh tomato sauce, pesto—the rich agricultural bounty of southeastern Ohio meant that nearly any blended foodstuff was within my grasp. "You were right about the Cuisinart," I told my mom, a tough sentence for me mutter. I hate being wrong. Moreover, I hate admitting to my mistakes. But more often than not, mothers know best.]]> Jeff Greenspan had no practical involvement in street art before the age of 39. Doing improvisational comedy was his attempt at having any sort of public impact. A copywriter and creative director by day, he was never audacious enough to call himself an artist.]]> "I think we need to get you a tomato pie," my friend Will said, knee-steering our car from the City of Brotherly Love at a speed that Indianapolis 500 aficionados would appreciate. "It's what you eat in Trenton, New Jersey."]]> ITS A TORRID Tuesday night on the western fringes of Soho, not far from the languorous Hudson River, and Im desperately craving a cold beer. To find one, I enter Mediterranean-leaning restaurant 508 NYC (508 Greenwich St. at Spring St.,]]> Close your eyes and picture a New York City bicyclist. I am going to bet that your mental image instinctively mirrors some long-held stereotype like, “spandex-clad roadie,” or “fixie messenger” or “insert Brooklyn-type stereotype here.” In New York, and really around the country, bicycling has long-been marginalized as a subculture, both because of our automobile dependence and in reaction to a national identity that is fiercely grounded in aspirational car ownership. We take for granted how intensely we are trained to not take bicycle transportation seriously. It’s not surprising that stereotypes about bike riders would follow suit.]]> AS A HOME cook, I consider myself a culinary MacGyver. When growling hunger hits, I rummage through the wilted dregs filling my fridge—a hectic New York schedule means days and weeks disappear before I grocery-shop. Rotting grub doesn't depress me; instead, I take it as a challenge to create something edible out of food with one foot in a garbage bin.]]> Super Duper Weenie dates to 1979, when it was a wee Connecticut food truck. In 1992, Gary Zemola acquired the truck and refurbished it, focusing on snappy wieners topped with from-scratch relishes, coleslaw, chili, red-onion sauce and sauerkraut. ]]> Apotheke is famous for its showy, fire-heavy mixing, so Trummer set the experiential bar pretty high by putting the word theater right in the name of the place.]]> MY EARLY PIZZA education was doughy and disturbing. I cut my teeth on school-lunch cardboard rectangles crowned by pepperoni cubes, greasy deep-dish Pizza Hut pies and Papa John's floppy slices that I dunked in nuclear-yellow garlic butter. Further torturing my developing taste buds, my family's freezer was filled with heresies such as pizza bagels and frozen pies bought for a buck.]]> MY LAST CAR died an overheated death in December 1999, not long after I drove to Mexico during a hurricane. In my haste to make hay home, I pushed my Nissan Stanza (charitably speaking, a tan box with sliding doors) to the breaking point, damaging the engines pistons beyond repairwell, the meager funds of a college student.]]> I'm an avid cyclist, regularly cranking out 70 or 80 miles a week. This fosters a caloric equilibrium: food enters my mouth, and the calories leave via my thick, pumping thighs. It's a system that's kept my stomach in check for much of the past 32 years. But this frigid, snowy, rainy, neverending winter has kept me from bicycling.]]>