I turned 40 this year, and I’m not really feeling it. Unfortunately, I can’t blame the usual culprits—the cranky joints, random tantrums and grey hair. If anything I’ve come to appreciate these things, if for no other reason than they make me appear more professional. What’s been troubling me of late are my newfound obsessions. In my younger days I used to fret over things like getting into a good college, how to make the world a better place and my future. Now I obsess over how to make the perfect tenderloin. Proof in point, I burned the midnight oil last night studying a new technique that involves roasting the chateaubriand first, then searing it in a pan of canola oil. Apparently this counter-intuitive method yields a tenderloin that is equally crusty and moist. God, see what I mean? I hate 40.
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