Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa, is my everything.
I've been watching her cook beautiful spreads in her spotless—but not inaccessibly so—kitchen, and then throughout the pages of her books, for as long as I can remember. My best memories from middle school involve faking sick so I could stay home and lie in my parents bed, propped up on my elbows, mesmerized as she peeled potatoes effortlessly on the screen of their shoebox-sized television.
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