‘New Yorker’ cartoonists admit to having ‘The Two Saddest Kitchens’

Bloombury Publishing

I’ve never cared much about cooking. Blame my mother. A woman of her generation, my mother never questioned that, even when she was working as a secretary, it was her job to get dinner (or “supper,” as we called it) on the table every night for me and my father. She served up a meat and two veg most weeknights; Horn & Hardart fish cakes on Friday; and a roast on Sunday. But, she also often declared