This segment is titled: The problem with the word "Best"

Often, participants in my cooking school ask me about my favorite restaurant in Rhode Island or want to know which place I think is the best. I hesitate to provide a straightforward answer, as I firmly believe that culinary preferences and dining experiences are inherently subjective.

Let me tell you a story about taste - that most personal yet most hotly debated of human experiences. Picture this: you're sitting across from a friend at that hot new restaurant everyone's raving about, the one the local food critic crowned "the absolute best Italian in the city." Your fork twists through handmade pasta while your friend takes their first bite of the same dish. Here's the strange truth - you're not tasting the same thing. Not really. While you savor what might be the most perfect al dente texture you've ever experienced, your dining companion, through no fault of their own or the chef's, might be having a completely different sensory encounter. This isn't just about differing opinions; it's about the very biology that makes us human.

The illusion of objective taste begins to unravel when we peer into the science of our senses. That cilantro garnish dividing the table between lovers and haters? Blame a tiny genetic variation. How can your partner detect subtle floral notes in wine while you taste "red"? Thank your unique combination of taste receptors and saliva enzymes. Even professional tasters with trained palates experience this - their expertise lies not in some universal truth, but in recognizing how their particular physiology interprets flavors. Yet our food culture remains stubbornly attached to absolutes, to definitive rankings and undisputed champions.

We've created entire industries around declaring "bests" and "worsts" in a realm where such judgments are biologically impossible to standardize.

Consider the curious case of the food critic - that mysterious figure whose pronouncements can make or break restaurants. How did we decide that someone who's never reduced a sauce until their arms ached, never balanced flavors while tickets piled up, never felt the burn of a busy kitchen's heat, gets to be the ultimate arbiter of culinary worth? There's something fundamentally unbalanced about a system where chefs spend decades mastering their craft only to be judged by those who've mastered little more than the art of the takedown review. The rise of social media has only amplified this paradox, turning every enthusiastic eater with a smartphone into a self-appointed expert.

We've confused consumption with understanding, as if eating at enough trendy spots somehow equates to culinary wisdom.

But here's the beautiful truth buried beneath all this posturing: your taste is yours alone. Not the critic's, not the influencer's, not even that friend who insists they have "refined" preferences. Authentic food culture isn't about chasing someone else's idea of perfection - it's about the joy of discovering what sings to your unique palate. Maybe that means loving the neighborhood diner's burger more than the celebrated gastropub's dry-aged version. Perhaps it involves preferring simple, honest cooking over elaborate tasting menus.

The most meaningful meals aren't those deemed "the best" by some external standard, but those that resonate with your personal history, your memories, your physiology. The taste of your grandmother's apple pie, the aroma of your favorite childhood dish-these are the flavors that genuinely matter. So the next time you encounter another breathless declaration of culinary supremacy, smile knowingly.

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This segment is titled: Fueling Olympians with a Mountain of Pasta, and The Delicious Chaos of Eating Like an Olympian in Italy.

While here in Rhode Island we are buried under a pile of senseless snow, picture yourself walking into the Olympic Village in Milan or breathing in the fresh mountain air of Corteena d'Ampezzo during the Milano Corteena 2026 Winter Games. After a tough training session, you're drawn to the dining hall, ready for a meal packed with carbs, protein, and plenty of Italian flavor. Unlike previous Olympic events like Sochi or PyeongChang, where food blandness left much to be desired, here the menu is so tasty that athletes are sharing pizza reviews on social media, acting like Michelin inspectors. I am writing this piece as I have cooked at four Winter Olympics myself, starting with Salt Lake City in 2002, and can tell you firsthand what really goes on in those hall kitchens. I vividly remember one busy evening in Salt Lake City when the Canadian ski team stood, eagerly facing a mountain of pappardelle pasta. With the power out due to a snowstorm, we hurriedly improvised under emergency lights, turning the situation into a spontaneous culinary adventure. The athletes gathered around, laughing and joking, as we created a makeshift assembly line, cutting pasta with whatever tools were on hand. It was a moment of delicious chaos, blending the thrill of the games with the camaraderie that emerges over a shared plate of flour and eggs. Those are the moments that make cooking at the Olympics unforgettable.

Imagine something like up to 4,500 meals whipped up daily in the Milan hub alone, nearly 4,000 in Corteena, and another 2,300 in Predazzo. That's a mountain of pasta, with around 600 kilograms dished out each day. To put that into perspective, it's enough to fuel approximately 1,200 downhill runs, underscoring the athletes' immense calorie needs. Athletes swarm the carb stations like kids at a candy store, loading plates with spaghetti, gnocchi, fettuccine, and lasagna. One American freestyler declared she's had "the best pasta I've ever had here," while others admit to smashing entire pizzas post-practice. South African cross-country skier Matt Smith is on a mission, rating a quattro formaggi pizza an impressive 8.5/10 (lasagna got a polite "good"), and even scored a custom South African flag pizza topped with herbs and cured meats. Talk about personalized fueling! And for a sprinkle of quirky trivia, the most popular midnight snack among athletes is a surprising choice: Nutella-stuffed croissants, while the oddest request, hands down, was for spaghetti covered in chocolate sauce, proving their adventurous and unusual taste buds.

The Canadian women's hockey team can't get enough focaccia, and sometimes bread is more popular than pasta. Their plates are loaded with pasta in meat sauce, fresh mozzarella, burrata, Parmigiano, and grilled proteins like chicken, turkey, veal, beef, salmon, or white fish. There are also vegetables and fruit for balance, and one player joked, "They're coming, OK?" But when you're burning thousands of calories on the ice or in the snow, a little extra cheese is just part of the deal. That extra cheese provides quick glycogen replenishment and boosts calcium intake for bone health. This indulgence aligns with a periodized nutrition strategy, where cycles of load, perform, and recover are carefully planned to ensure optimal performance over time.

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This segment is titled "The History of Mascarpone Cheese."

The history of mascarpone cheese, that luxuriously creamy Italian dairy product often hailed as the star ingredient in tiramisu and other indulgent desserts, is rooted in the fertile dairy traditions of northern Italy, particularly the Lombardy region south of Milan, where rich pastures, abundant cow's milk, and centuries of cheesemaking expertise have long thrived. Emerging during the Renaissance era, likely in the late 16th or early 17th century—though some sources trace references as far back as the 15th century with mentions in texts like the 1477 Summa Lacticinorum by Pantaleone da Confienza—mascarpone developed as a practical way for local farmers and dairymen to utilize the abundant fresh cream skimmed from whole milk, especially in areas like Lodi, Abbiategrasso, and the lower Po Valley, where the landscape's lush grasses, herbs, and flowers nourished high-quality milk production. Unlike traditional cheeses that rely on rennet coagulation of milk and aging, mascarpone is technically not a cheese at all in the strictest sense but a fresh dairy cream product made through acid-heat coagulation: heavy cream (typically from pasteurized cow's milk) is gently heated to around 85–90°C, then acidified with citric acid, tartaric acid (often from wine barrel residues), or sometimes acetic acid or lemon juice, causing the fats and proteins to separate and curdle into soft, velvety curds that are drained through cheesecloth or muslin, resulting in its signature ivory-white color, smooth spreadable texture, mild sweet-tart flavor, and exceptionally high fat content—often 60–75% or more on a dry basis, giving it that buttery richness and luxurious mouthfeel.

The name "mascarpone" itself remains a subject of delightful etymological debate, with no single definitive origin but several charming theories reflecting the region's linguistic and historical layers. One popular explanation links it to "mascherpa" or "mascarpia," a Lombard dialect term for ricotta or a similar whey-based product, highlighting the shared simple coagulation process between the two, though mascarpone uses cream rather than whey or milk. Another theory, favored by Lombard writer Gianni Brera, suggests that the fuller form "mascherpone" derives from "Cascina Mascherpa," a historic farmstead or locality in the borderlands between the provinces of Lodi, Milan, and Pavia, in the fertile Bassa Padana. A more romantic, if less substantiated, tale attributes it to the Spanish phrase "más que bueno" ("better than good"), an exclamation supposedly uttered by a Spanish noble during the period of Spanish domination in Milan (16th–18th centuries), praising the decadent treat. Regardless of its linguistic roots, mascarpone was traditionally a seasonal product, crafted mainly in winter when cream was plentiful and perishable goods easier to handle in cooler climates, and it carried the Prodotto Agroalimentare Tradizionale (P.A.T.) designation from the Italian government, recognizing it as a traditional agricultural food product tied to Lombardy without the stricter geographical protections of PDO status—meaning it can now be produced anywhere while still honoring its northern Italian heritage.

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Shrinkflation, that sneaky economic phenomenon where companies quietly reduce the size, quantity, or sometimes even the quality of a product while keeping the retail price the same—or only slightly increasing it—has become a frustrating reality for consumers worldwide, effectively acting as a hidden form of inflation that chips away at purchasing power without the immediate sting of a blatant price hike. Also known as package downsizing, weight-out, or skimpflation in its more extreme forms (where quality suffers too), shrinkflation is essentially a stealthy way for manufacturers to pass on rising production costs to buyers, who often don’t notice the change until their favorite bag of chips runs out faster or their toilet paper roll feels noticeably thinner. The term itself is a clever portmanteau of “shrink” and “inflation,” and while the practice dates back centuries, the modern word was popularized in the late 2000s and early 2010s. British economist Pippa Malmgren is widely credited with coining or popularizing “shrinkflation” in its current usage around 2009–2015, describing it as a counterpart to overt price inflation in which the product itself shrinks rather than the dollar stretching further.

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This episode is titled: The Empire of the Steak: Why America is a Carnivore's Paradise

To understand the United States, one must eventually look at its dinner plate. On that plate, usually front and center, sits a portion of animal protein that would stagger the average global citizen. Americans consume over 220 pounds of red meat and poultry per person annually—one of the highest rates in the world.

But this appetite isn't just about hunger, nor is it merely about nutrition. In America, meat is a narrative. It is a story woven into the country's geography, its economy, and its very concept of freedom. The reason Americans eat so much meat is that, for centuries, the ability to do so was the clearest definition of the American Dream.

The story begins before the United States was even a nation. When European settlers arrived in the New World, they came from a continent where meat was a luxury reserved for the aristocracy. The average English or French peasant survived on bread, gruel, and seasonal vegetables. A roasted bird or a side of beef was a rare, festive treat.

In America, however, the script was flipped. The land was teeming with game, and the vast forests provided ample foraging for livestock. Pigs, specifically, became the colonists' best friend. They could be let loose in the woods to fatten themselves on acorns and roots with almost no human labor, then harvested for a winter's worth of protein.

By the mid-19th century, foreign visitors were often shocked by the American diet. They wrote home describing breakfast tables groaning under the weight of steaks, chops, and ham. In America, even the poor ate meat. It was the first tangible proof that this was indeed the "Land of Plenty."

While pork was the early staple, beef became the soul of the nation. This shift occurred in the mid-to-late 1800s, driven by two forces: the myth of the West and the reality of the railroad.

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This episode is about the Portuguese sweet delicacy, Pastéis de Nata.

Picture this: You're wandering the sun-drenched streets of Lisbon, the air thick with the salty whisper of the Tagus River and the distant chime of tram bells. Suddenly, a heavenly scent stops you in your tracks—crisp, buttery pastry mingling with warm, creamy custard, dusted with cinnamon that dances like autumn leaves in the breeze. This is the allure of pastéis de nata, Portugal's iconic custard tarts, a treat so irresistible that it has seduced palates from monastery kitchens to global cafes. But these little golden gems are more than just a snack; they're a slice of history, a cultural emblem, and a culinary adventure waiting to be baked in your own oven. Let's embark on a flavorful journey through their story.

Our tale begins in the early 18th century, nestled in the grand halls of the Jerónimos Monastery in Belém, a riverside parish in Lisbon. Back then, Catholic monks weren't just devoted to prayer; they were inadvertent innovators in the kitchen. With vast quantities of egg whites used for starching their habits (and even clarifying wines), the leftover yolks piled up like forgotten treasures. Resourceful as ever, the monks transformed these yolks into sweet confections, blending them with sugar, milk, and flour to create custardy delights. This wasn't unique to Jerónimos—Portugal's convents were hotbeds for such "conventual sweets," where egg-based recipes proliferated to avoid waste. But it was here, amid the ornate Manueline architecture now a UNESCO World Heritage site, that the pastel de nata truly took shape.

Fast-forward to the turbulent 1820s. The Liberal Revolution swept through Portugal, dissolving religious orders and threatening the closure of monasteries. Desperate to sustain themselves, the Jerónimos monks began selling their custard tarts at a nearby sugar refinery. It was a hit—locals couldn't get enough of the flaky, puff-pastry shells cradling that velvety, slightly caramelized filling. By 1834, the monastery shuttered its doors for good, but the recipe didn't vanish into oblivion. Instead, it was sold to the refinery owners, who opened the Fábrica de Pastéis de Belém in 1837. To this day, this bustling bakery churns out thousands of tarts daily, using a secret formula known only to a handful of master bakers who mix it behind locked doors. Legend has it that the original recipe has remained unchanged for nearly two centuries, a testament to the tarts' timeless appeal.

From these humble monastic origins, pastéis de nata evolved into a national treasure, weaving themselves into the fabric of Portuguese life. In Portugal, they're not reserved for special occasions; they're an everyday indulgence, savored warm from the oven with a sprinkle of cinnamon and powdered sugar, often paired with a strong bica (espresso) at local pastelarias. They symbolize resilience and ingenuity, born from necessity yet elevated to artistry. During Portugal's Age of Discoveries, spices like cinnamon (traded from Asia) added an exotic flair, making the tarts a microcosm of the country's seafaring heritage. Today, they're cultural ambassadors, exported to former colonies and beyond—think Hong Kong's dan tat or Macau's po tat, where Portuguese sailors introduced the recipes centuries ago. In Lisbon, queues snake out of Pastéis de Belém, where tourists and locals alike partake in this ritual, biting into layers of history with every crunch. Festivals celebrate them, and they're even protected under EU law as a traditional specialty, ensuring their authenticity endures. For the Portuguese, a pastel de nata isn't just food; it's a warm hug from the past, a sweet reminder of home in a fast-changing world.

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Today's episode is about foods that may be dangerous when not consumed properly.

Many everyday foods that seem harmless—or even healthy—can pose real risks when mishandled, overconsumed, or prepared improperly. I'm not here to spread fear, but rather to promote sensible awareness so you can enjoy them safely. We already recognize that frequent junk food like greasy cheeseburgers or high-calorie donuts harms our diet over time. Similarly, several everyday items we eat regularly carry potential downsides if we're not mindful.

I'll begin with Wild mushrooms as a prime example. Foraging for mushrooms in your backyard or accepting them from a well-meaning friend might feel natural and organic, but wild varieties contain deadly toxins. They often closely resemble safe, supermarket-bought ones, yet harbor poisonous compounds that can lead to severe illness or fatality. Reliable data shows that mushroom poisonings cause a small number of deaths annually in the US—typically around 3 per year on average—though global estimates sometimes suggest higher figures in certain regions, and severe cases requiring hospitalization are more common. The key risk comes from misidentification, so unless you're an expert mycologist, it's far safer to stick with commercially cultivated varieties.

Number 2: Elderberries. Often praised in natural remedies for their immune-supporting potential, require careful preparation. When raw, underripe, or improperly cooked, they contain compounds (including cyanogenic glycosides) that can release cyanide in the body, leading to symptoms such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, abdominal cramps, dizziness, or, in larger amounts, even worse. Always cook elderberries thoroughly—such as in jams, syrups, or teas—and avoid including stems, leaves, or unripe berries, which are more toxic. Commercial products are generally processed safely, but homemade versions demand extra caution.

Number 3 is Nutmeg, a beloved spice in both sweet treats and savory dishes like cream sauces, which is delightful in small pinches. However, consuming larger quantities—such as 2–3 teaspoons or more (around 5–10 grams or higher)—can trigger serious effects due to myristicin. This compound metabolizes into substances causing hallucinations, dizziness, nausea, dry mouth, rapid heartbeat, confusion, and, in extreme cases, seizures or prolonged distress. While fatalities are extremely rare and usually involve massive overdoses or combinations with other substances, nutmeg intoxication has sent people to emergency rooms, especially from misguided attempts to use it recreationally. Stick to typical culinary amounts for flavor without worry.

Number 4 is tuna, which certainly offers excellent protein and heart-healthy omega-3 fatty acids. Still, it accumulates methylmercury, a neurotoxin that can harm the kidneys, nervous system, and developing brains over time. Larger predatory species, such as albacore (white tuna) or bigeye, have higher levels than skipjack or canned light varieties. Health authorities like the FDA recommend moderation: for most adults, a few servings per week are fine, with pregnant or breastfeeding individuals and young children limiting intake further, perhaps 8 to 12 ounces of lower-mercury seafood weekly, with albacore capped slightly lower. Choose "best choice" options like canned light tuna more often and vary your seafood to minimize exposure.

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The history of tiramisu, that beloved Italian dessert known for its layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers, creamy mascarpone, and dusting of cocoa, is a tale woven from legend, culinary innovation, and a dash of controversy, much like the dessert itself which translates to "pick me up" or "cheer me up" in Italian, a nod to its invigorating blend of caffeine and sugar. While some romanticized accounts trace its roots back to the 17th or 18th century, suggesting inspirations from earlier treats like Zuppa Inglese—a layered English trifle adapted in Italy with custard, sponge, and liqueur—or even the rustic Sbatudin, a simple whipped egg yolk and sugar cream from mid-19th-century peasant kitchens in Treviso, the modern form of tiramisu as we recognize it today emerged far more recently, in the post-World War II era of northern Italy's Veneto and Friuli-Venezia Giulia regions. These ancestral desserts provided the foundational elements: the custard-like richness, the soaking of biscuits, and the energizing additions, but tiramisu's true genesis lies in the vibrant culinary scene of the 1960s and 1970s, when Italy was rebuilding and innovating in its kitchens. One of the most widely accepted origin stories points to the restaurant Le Beccherie in Treviso, where, on Christmas Eve 1969, pastry chef Roberto Linguanotto, collaborating with Alba di Pillo, the wife of owner Ado Campeol, accidentally created the dessert while experimenting with a vanilla ice cream recipe; Linguanotto reportedly dropped mascarpone into a bowl of beaten eggs and sugar, liked the result, and then incorporated coffee-dipped savoiardi biscuits and cocoa powder to form the layered delight that would soon grace their menu by 1972. This version emphasizes simplicity and fresh ingredients, eschewing heavy liqueurs in the original recipe, though later adaptations often include Marsala wine or coffee liqueur like Kahlua for added depth. However, competing claims muddy the waters: some assert it was born in the 1950s in Treviso's brothels, where clever madams served it as an aphrodisiac to energize clients, leveraging the stimulating properties of coffee and chocolate, while tales of a young mother sharing her post-childbirth restorative recipe with Le Beccherie's chefs circulate. Others push the timeline further back, crediting Mario Cosolo in Friuli-Venezia Giulia with a 1938 invention called Coppa Vetturino, a precursor featuring mascarpone and chocolate, or even an early 1900s dessert from Sacile that resembled a layered treat with similar components. There's also a Sienese legend from the 17th century, linking it to a visit by Grand Duke Cosimo the third de' Medici, though this seems more apocryphal, as no written records of tiramisu appear until the 1960s, with its first print mention in a 1981 Veneto cookbook and official recognition in dictionaries by 1983. Despite these debates, Treviso proudly claims tiramisu as its own, with the Accademia del Tiramisù founded to preserve its heritage, and in 2013, the Veneto region officially designated it as a traditional product, while Friuli stakes its claim through local festivals and historical assertions. The dessert's evolution accelerated in the 1970s as it spread beyond local eateries; by the 1980s, tiramisu had conquered international palates, particularly in the United States, where Italian immigrants and restaurateurs like Walter Potenza of homonymous Walters, and Lidia Bastianich introduced it at their restaurants in Providence and New York in 1981, sparking a craze that saw it featured in newspapers as an "obsession" by 1989, with variations popping up in San Francisco and beyond. This surge in popularity coincided with the global rise of Italian cuisine, fueled by media, cookbooks, and the dessert's approachable no-bake preparation, making it a staple in home kitchens worldwide.

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