For the last month or so, I've been shucking littlenecks from the supermarket, splashing them with a little Tabasco and eating dinner in front of the television set. One night before tuning in, I constructed a pastrami on rye the size of a housing project. Trapped in a couch dent, I've been drinking Schaefer beer like a sailor on liberty. Even poured a few teaspoons of it into the cat's bowl for good luck. Half crazed, I tried last week to reproduce my grandmother's veal scallopini. No chance: Given a bulb of garlic and a spatula, that woman was a genius. Meanwhile, my long-distance calls to area codes 212, 914, 718 and 973 -- many of them placed while TV baseball blazed away -- have turned the phone bill at my house into something the General Accounting Office... More >>>