The Wife throws down.


You can’t go just parading around with your Beef Wellington hanging out there and not expect a response of some kind.

So that’s the grassfed T-Bone we bought off the back of a truck in the dead of night in a middle school parking lot outside of Murietta buried under the mushrooms and onions, and creamed spinach resting under the crispy shallots, and the gratin, well, you know about the gratin. Plus some sort of fishy thing in the background. And some pinky French thing in the foreground.

And we had none other than Korrekiv Kommentariat ImeldaJean there to provide us with mudcake and caramel sauce. Happy New Year, indeed.


  1. cubeland mystic says

    How was the pinky French thing?

  2. Jonathan Webb says


  3. Jonathan Potter says

    I think the entire Kollektiv should winter at Casa Lickona and summer at the Wisconsin Compound.

  4. My aunt lives in Murietta. – Mrs. Webb

  5. Southern Expat says

    I second Mr. Potter's motion.

  6. Matthew Lickona says

    The pinkyfrench thing was lovely, but not as lovely as the pinky bubbly thing that got opened later.

  7. Matthew,

    I would never dream of competing with the sure hand of Mrs. November – it would be like Ground Round Employee #263 ("Hi, my name is Joe!") going up against Julia The Childs Herself.

    So, as I look at these pictures and try to stifle the tocatta and fugue of gi juices coursing their way through my midsection, I will gladly and willingly yield to greater talents on this score.

    (That way, too, of course, I have a better chance of securing an invitation to dinner at the Lickona household…)


  8. Matthew Lickona says

    No, no, after YOU…

    The wife laughed when I read your comment and said, "Oh, that's silly. Of course he's better."

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