Time to fess up: I am an over-zester. And you thought you knew everything about the SJG. This, I've been keeping from you. I zest as though my life depended on it, which, I'm fairly certain, it doesn't. B.G. (Before Giada), the SJG never zested. But ever since Giada appeared on my flatscreen, and in my cookbooks, and in magazines and online recipes, I've answered her call to zest. When Giada tells me to zest, I zest. I sprinkle lemon zest over pasta. I sprinkle lemon zest over roasted chicken. I sprinkle lemon zest on random objects. You could say I'm out of control. As a result of all this crazed zesting, I've sustained numerous zest-related injuries. I've scraped off my own tender skin in the midst of a zest frenzy. What happens goes something like this: "Oh joy, oh rapture, it's so much fun to zest, look at me, zesting away, zest zest -- oh eff! I did it again!" The recipe doesn't call for the zest of one SJG. Like you, I've read those books and seen those movies where the cook cries into the food she's preparing and magical things happen. Those around her change dramatically and fall in love, thanks to the tears she shed baking bread or cake or whatever. I shudder to think what would happen should my family find out the lemon zest over their pasta contains a teaspoon of SJG. Dear God in Heaven. I'd have a family full of very silly, very impatient people prone to kvetching, over-thinking, spontaneous bursts of dancing, and yelling at the TV during any and all sporting events. And we can't let that happen, can we? So, what say we keep this particular reveal to ourselves? Let's be hush-hush about the secret ingredient I may have inadvertently added to many a recipe more than once. To show my commitment, I hereby put down my zester. I'm done zesting. Done, I tell ya. Done. Until Giada tells me to pick up my zester. I'm powerless in her presence.
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