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I'm reading the subject book by the author about
his life in Paris. This particular paragraph is about his cooking some
lamb for a chef visiting at his apartment home in Paris.
"But how was the lamb? The wine was
excellent. The tarte aux pommes was fine. And the lamb? Well, the lamb had
a strong resemblance to a third baseman's mitt with interesting hints of
Naugahyde, kapok, and old suede bomber jacket. I think I now realize what
went wrong: after three years having a French oven, I realized that it was easy
to forget that American cookbooks were still written, so to speak, in
Fahrenheit. Its two hundred degrees were almost half as hot as the
two hundred degrees of my Celsius oven."
Norm
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