John and Mario Batali

There's something strange and wonderful going on in my home. As I've entered the professional kitchen -- trying to determine whether I've got the skills to be a cook while working in the Tom Douglas restaurant world -- my husband has become the family chef.

John worked at the P-I, a page designer who started out many years ago as a reporter and has worked nearly every post in between, winning some huge awards along the way and now finds himself pretty much unemployable. What to do? Grad school? Ski bum? Foreign service? The latter was suggested by our sister-in-law, who lives in Cambodia. She wanted John to come apply to the American Embassy. Like this week. Too bad we just sent in our passports for renewal.

In the meantime, John's been spending some quality time with Mario B, reading one of his cookbooks, the one with the "easy" recipes, quoting passages and making some incredible meals. The proscuitto-wrapped chicken was my favorite so far. 

It's so obvious, but I've got to say it: These efforts are some of the greatest gifts I've ever received from my husband of umpteen years. He's way out of his comfort zone in the kitchen, well except for breakfast. But after one of my three stepmothers made breakfast for dinner way too many times -- she spent the grocery money on macrame supplies -- I refuse to eat eggs in the evening.

So, especially after standing for eight hours, these meals give me so much pleasure because I can tell they were prepared with love. I know that sounds super corny, but it's true. Just like the pot roast at Little Tea Shop, the barbecue at Cozy Corner and the braised oxtail at Salumi, which is going to be on the menu this week. I'm so going to get me some of that very special occasional special.

Did I mention my feet are killing me? I've been soliciting comfy shoe suggestions, so help me put my best foot forward.