Sad to realize whoever invented “dough conditioners” will probably get an obit. And ponzu will always sound like a scheme. Also, sadly, too: It’s a good thing Orwell is not around to hear “botched execution.” You use that verb for brownies, FFS.
Archive for April, 2014
Wednesday whiplash: One story tells you there’s no spring produce, the other says “shell peas!” And then there’s the third, touting the Greenmarket “pantry.” Which of course is better-stocked this time of year than the Greenmarket “walk-in.” You can, after all, cook anything with potato chips and applesauce.
File this trollbait under: Someone is wrong on the Internet. If we lived under a dictatorship, I would be the first to lay all the blame on the White House for the lack of huge progress (as opposed to “the fail”) in changing the way Big Ag forces America to eat. But it is impossible for one branch of government to push back hard enough when the two others have been bought off along with much of the media. (Even the so-called heroes among the latter are villains to dairy farmers, BTW. Lookin’ at you, Mr. Cream Cheese For Me, Not For Thee.) I do want to hope that one day, when all the black smoke has cleared, the country may see the bigger picture. But look at what’s happening with the fight over the minimum wage for fast-food workers. What the NRA (either of ‘em) don’t want, the country don’t get. The 10.10 bucks don’t stop in the Oval Office. But at least now it’s perfectly clear: Kale was brought in as the arugula assassin. Call it the Manchurian Crucifer.
Meantime, I have to sorta RT myself from the other day, after we got back from an outstanding outing to the West Indies of Queens: I saw a sadly, seriously obese toddler on a subway platform and realized how rare such a sighting is these days. Somehow the Obama Fail and the Nanny State have helped moms realize there is such a thing as nutrition, and it matters more than cheap sugar water sucked from a baby bottle in a stroller. Too bad we don’t have a dictator who could return home ec to the kiddy curriculum so future parents of America could learn my NYC-public-school-educated mom’s math: beans + cornbread = complete protein.
Give the Butter Guzzler some credit. She was a trend-setter for once: First off the plantation with the racist remarks plus behavior to make them stick. And you have to hope she, as a sports follower, feels compelled to weigh in on the latest whitey tape while playing musical chairs while she’s played by a fool. Keep that comeback coming!
If sriracha met limes, the whole journamalism biz would blow up. The latest hysteria largely ignores the reality that you can still find the once largely uncelebrated citrus but will simply pay much more for much smaller fruit. Anyone who cooks by the calendar already knew that; only tasteless strawberries are cheap all year round because they have no season. What’s sad is, first, that Mexican growers are eating their seed corn because they desperately need the cash and, second, that most of the coverage of the latest “OMG, we’re going to thirst to death!” ignores one underlying reason for the shortage. Greedmeisters had this genius idea that farmlands could be turned into exurban sprawl for easy money from banksters. They paved citrus groves and put up what are now unsold houses. Now the country obsessed with “homeland security” has to rely solely on imports. A paragliding photographer friend has just provided visual evidence of China going down the same sad road, with rice paddies as the foundation for moatless wannabe castles. The epitaph for this world should be: You can have McMansions or margaritas. You can’t have both.
File this under: The new sheriff can’t get to town from Texas fast enough. WTF were they thinking, featuring hard-cooked (cq) eggs a week after readers had to have said, “FFS, enuf already”? Who doesn’t want to roast a whole turkey before the leftovers have even been thrown out? At least the whole enterprise was a reminder that eggs for hard-cooking really are among the few things that are best when they have a little age on ’em.*
*And somewhere a waiter in a toupee nodded appreciatively.
Way back in the last century, when Brie was too funky for me, I remember one of my overlords at the hometown paper saying his wife insisted they boycott the Coach House because she had spotted cans from processed-crap bouillon in the (pre-recycling-era) garbage. Today I’m followed all over the Internets by ads/links to that gruesome saline solution. It’s pretty bad when I’d prefer the Chimp’s dad’s garish socks — if only to strain out that little clot of creepy fat floating in every tin.
And here is more evidence that you should, as I’ve always contended, beware any food or food establishment with “health” in the name. Grimm Rep, indeed. Leave it to the yapping masses to be judge and jury: “The matzoh-ball soup was terrible, and the bowl was too small.”
The best promo ever for a cooking show was this hypnotic Vine: Put your lips together and blow up ratings. My foie is still in crise from Lyon nearly 15 years ago, but my consort and I had to tune in for the first time. What we watched made me think we were, as is too fucking often, there too soon. We had tacked on a train trip after his over-the-top gig in Paris celebrating the 1 percent before they were so close to being worthy of a new revolution, and we had eaten literally at the top of the food chain, where everything was restrained and cerebral. The home of the silk weavers’ brains struck me as, to steal from Calvin Trillin, all “stuff-stuff with heavy.” But here is the redemptive capability of my biggest fan not in the Loudon sense: Watching all that unabashed food porn, I realized that what had seemed so dated and heavy all those years ago would taste pretty splendiferous today. What I mostly learned, though, is that CNN has been spending so much time on the search for the plane it forgot to find any quality advertisers. How many Big Macs can one viewer suffer?
Everything you need to know about the world within and without fud is that a rich rancher who is resisting paying “we the people” to let his cattle graze for a pittance on public land is celebrated as a hero, not a taker, by the same people whining that the poors get food stamps to buy their sugar fizz and lobster. While the latest revalidated four-star chef in town is Tweetebrating his validation as a U.S. citizen. We’ve come a long way from freedom fries when the true patriot these days is the former Frenchman.
And it’s depressing to see useful idiots in an endangered profession (paid journalist, that would be) going after food stamp recipients for potential fraud while the banksters and big corporations continue to loot and pillage. Guess I have to quote Jay Gould yet again: “I could hire half the working class to kill the other half.” Imagine if he could have made them get up at dawn and blog, too. . .
I also saw an uplifting little piece on how the site of the meatpacking plant in Upton Sinclair’s “The Jungle” has been converted into a vertical farm. My sad reaction was that of course it had to involve tilapia; all these enterprises seem to do so. And that just means mud with gills.
Also, too, the non-feathered cardinal with the private chef in his mansion, the one who shows the faithful every day that gluttony is no longer a sin, made a splash by saying you can pick up birth control at any ol’ 7-Eleven. I knew that trashy chain would be the death of Manhattan. Guys in gowns apparently now shop there. But what’s really amazing is how clearly he has exposed wingnut thinking. Attempting to ban Big Gulps is tyranny. Banning “slut pills” is liberty. There must be a revolving-wiener joke in there somewhere.
And the Murdoch Crier, which can do so many things so well, seems to be suffering cognitive dissonance lately. One day it ran a story on what not to buy in a drugstore, because of course its readers are so worried about the exorbitant price of saline. But it omitted the best caveat: Stay the fuck away from the groceries — you’d be better off at Holy Foods. And then there was the disconnect between one section advising how to use luxury ingredients at home (err on the side of too generous with that caviar and foie gras, and definitely shave white truffles over your buttered noodles with “Parmesan”) and another reporting on a visit to a soup kitchen in a church dismayed that it still has to be ladling away after 30 years in “the richest country on earth.” Maybe Holy Apostles just needs D’Artagnan to deliver?