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When I lived in Italy, the one meal that became a repeated source of disappointment was breakfast.
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Dan raised a quizzical eyebrow when he heard me say “barley salad.”
It’s tough to make barley sound sexy.
One of my earliest kitchen memories is the smell of the warm, oaty, honeyed clumps of granola that my mother allowed my to stir–carefully, with a wooden spoon–as I stood on a chair to reach the golden mixtur
