Red Sauce

I have worked as a bubble sheet corrector (erasing stray pencil marks from tests), a honey baked ham cashier (“don’t finger the ham”), a day as an editor at Rolling Stone (she quit on principle), a fiction editor for "Big Butts" and "Leg Scene" magazines and finally as an Editor at a large corporate media-connected dot com. Through all the daily toils working as a reporter in various places in between the more interesting gigs like the bubble sheet gig, I ate. Eggplant sandwiches at Rubino’s in Chicago, 100s of burgers in New York, melty snickers bar baguette sandwiches under an overpass in France and pounds of other foods.
The staple of my diet as a child was red sauce. But when my mother got a divorce I started eating the Chicken Divine she discovered and made, a lot of Chicken Divine. So the opening up of my Italian American palate began with breaded chicken baked in a thick, muddy pool of beef consommé, cream of mushroom soup, celery, onion and rice. After that, anything could happen.