Matt doesn't really cook.
Toast and hard-boiled-eggs aside, his bachelor-hood days weren't necessarily filled with trips to the produce department at Ralph's or casual contemplation in front of the fresh seafood counter.
But a couple of weeks ago, Filippa was running late and he -- with the aid of the telephone and a couple, I'm sure, improvisational moments -- prepared pizza dough from scratch. Measured the yeast, added the water and flour, let it proof. Added the remaining goodies, covered with saran wrap and let it rise.
Honestly, I thought that would be it.
And then I got the phone call.
"Matt made stir-fried chicken with sugar-snap peas and pineapple salsa," Filippa practically chirped.
He found a cookbook. Pounced on a recipe. And followed it, step-by-magical-step.
So ... what is it you're saying you can't do?
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