By Alex IlyashovPLAY Columnist

I’m all about exotic flavors, outrageous textures and stranger combinations than ever thought edible. I love a good steak tartare so raw it could amble off my plate, framed in a potpurri of capers and coarse pepper and raw minced onions. The same could be said for a pungent slice of cheese with a few inches’ worth of carefully cultivated mold proudly protruding. They make me squeal – not squeamish.

But I, too, have a weak spot for the flaky, the carbolicious, the sinfully buttery – especially in blisteringly cold weather. Like right now.

I mean, on an April 25 not too many years ago, I woke up to the rich, delightfully processed and artificially flavored scent of Pillsbury “birthday crust” wafting into my bedroom. That’s right; I got a crumbly, grease-stained-fingers pie crust for breakfast in lieu of conventional eggs and bacon. But back to the moral of the story: no matter how much a person can love fusion-this, macrobiotic-that and cr