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Some mornings we would wake up to the smell of burning hair and the roar of a blowtorch. Our Hungarian friends would be processing a pig—this meant a feast was coming.

Hungary

Some mornings we would wake up to the smell of burning hair and the roar of a blowtorch. Our Hungarian friends would be processing a pig—this meant a feast was coming.

Esquire - By Nicolaus Balla

During my childhood in the 1980s in rural Michigan, margarine ruled the pantry of our house. My stepfather's doctor told him to watch his cholesterol by eliminating almost all fat, especially saturated, from his diet. Our refrigerator quickly filled with plastic buckets of whipped, white, …

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