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Check out the sweet flamethrower action on the back cover of Jumper: Griffin’s Story. Could it be ZOMBIES?

In my fantasies, I don’t imagine dinner with Voltaire (happy birthday, V.) or Abraham Lincoln or Will Rogers. I don’t picture in my head what I would serve to the Dalai Lama, or Matt Damon (the sexiest man alive) or George Clooney. No, when I seat imaginary guests at my dinner table, they’re chefs. Right now, I can think of no more fun guests to have than Michael Symon of Lola and John Besh of Restaurant August. They both went to the finals of the Next Iron Chef competition and they made great food, and were really funny and fun. (Michael Symon, shaved head intense-looking, has a shotgun giggle that I find terrifically endearing.)

I write for an imaginary audience. What some people call the ideal reader. I cook for a couple of audiences. My husband, especially. But also for the ideal eater. And chefs seem to me to be people steeped in food. Demanding, of course. Understanding and catholic—they get food and what was done with it, and they have to be able to eat broadly. Not all chefs, of course. A chef is the guy in charge of the kitchen. He is the one who creates the menu, tells the line cooks and dishwashers what to do. He’s a business manager. The guy in the local Big Boy is technically a chef. But that’s not what I mean. I admire a good chef’s ability to meet price points and organize a kitchen, but what I want is someone who really really thinks a lot about food.

Thanksgiving is a balancing act between the real and the imaginary. My Thanksgiving Menu, posted below the cut, reflects that. Read More »