A home is a sacred place. My property, my prerogative. If you’re coming into my house, well, then you better understand that it’s my personal right to test out whatever delicious-sounding recipe I want on you.

Let’s say I wake up at 3 a.m. to the sound of glass shattering. I’m in my bedroom, I can hear footsteps, and I’ve recently found an amazing spaghetti alla carbonara recipe online. Don’t think for a second I’m not printing that thing out, creeping downstairs to the kitchen, and getting cracking on the sauce.

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Then I’m telling that intruder, in a firm, clear voice with the full force of the law behind it, that he’d better make himself comfortable and get ready for some top-quality Italian food. I’m not gonna ask any questions. I’m not gonna hold back.

Then I’m telling that intruder, in a firm, clear voice with the full force of the law behind it, that he’d better make himself comfortable and get ready for some top-quality Italian food.

That’s the beauty of this country. I can’t guarantee that a stranger won’t try to enter my home, but I can ensure that when he does, he’s in for a hefty serving of cayenne butternut squash, poached eggs with cashews, or whatever else I’m itching to try out.

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In fact, the moment a stranger enters your home, anything from your mom’s peach whiskey BBQ chicken, to vanilla creamer pancakes, to Yorkshire pudding, to spicy-sweet guacamole, is fair game under the Constitution of the United States of America.

So, if a hostile stranger is in my home along with all the ingredients for a ceviche for two, I’m not even going to warn the bastard. I’m just going to serve it right up.