Whatever else you might say about the Big Os, they are the most food-savvy White House occupants ever. He not only knew to make a pit stop at the most revered deli in America but could riff on the menu afterward. “Stinkburger” and “meanwich” may not be the most clever coinages. But joking about them seems much more presidential than choking on a pretzel after too much O’Doul’s.
Archive for the ‘Big Os’ Category
Late to this, but I have to say all the restaurant analogies for the rocky start to the Obamacare.gov exchanges have been pretty amusing. Either the site was as slammed as a Shake Shack or the whole program was hopelessly in the weeds. The reality is somewhere in between: The Health Department finally showed up to try to keep the cooks from spreading Hep A, and it might disrupt service a bit till the customers are covered, too. Too bad safely insured journamalists are all wannabe Yelpsters now.
The reaction to the kicking-a-cripple cuts in food stamps made me wish the Big O would indeed open his FEMA camps and start the impounding of the “patriots” already. So much ugliness is being spewed, even by people who would have you believe they believe “food is love.” I keep hammering away that fast food chains and Walmarts are mooching much more, letting taxpayers compensate for their shit wages, but resentment is the stone-soup du jour in this country. Jay Gould was on to something: “I could hire one half of the working class to kill the other half.” And his heirs sell Brawny paper towels and Dixie cups.
The latest reminder that I should type faster: Skittles have overtaken broccoli as the sad fud in the news. Before that, wingnuts were spewing spittle over the report that the Big O told kiddles his favorite edible is broccoli. I’m half with ‘em — it’s a weird choice. But even if it were a whopper, was it really worse than the Chimp and his yellowcake? Oh. Right. One was a white lie.
Given all the fuss over the Big O’s smoking gun, I’m wondering why we libs didn’t go crazier over the Chimp’s “pretzel” incident. There were no photos to prove he hadn’t overindulged in the O’Doul’s (or worse), and the only witness was the dog. Who, you’ll notice, just happened to kick off this week . . .
The shot seen round the world will go down in history, but something else struck me on seeing the photo linked everywhere by everyone. Over the three decades I’ve been writing about food, we’ve all, readers and writers alike, come to believe fast and chains are all Americans have. And yet somehow the Big O’s campaign finds independent after independent. Maybe the choice is clear: Pizza lift. Or car elevator.
Meanwhile, the Big O is showing what government of, for and by the people can do: Buy up the pigs and chickens and (unnoodled) catfish that farmers can’t afford to feed in this drought that somehow happened despite the rabid denial of climate change. And the USDA will be doing that while the do-nothing Congress takes a nice vacation rather than finishing the farm bill. Which is stalled partly because subsidies matter more than food stamps. Because wingnut logic holds that paying people to grow food is naturally better for the economy than helping the needy afford that food: Econ 101R — you grow it, they will buy it. And because this is a nation founded by God, whose first commandment was fuck the poors.
Also at the roundabout of politics and fud, I wonder how many cooks/chefs suddenly had a dream when the Big O said the right thing on marriage equality. After all these years of homophobia in whites, you have to wish the best to everyone coming out of the walk-in. . .
Every morning I wonder about the inevitable “Obama Fail” headlines when the guy who volunteered to helm the Titanic is doing so much. Now I have an inkling why. Apparently the Chimp and his Lump in the Bed always treated the Panchitos of the press corpse to a huge preview of the White House party fare for the endless and necessary holiday receptions. The Os do not. Revenge must be served hot every morning.
Every time anyone whinges about Mrs. O trying to turn around the ship of obesity the USofA has become, I wonder where the Lump in the Bed was for the eight years she allegedly devoted to advocating literacy. One First Lady just got a big chain to promise to make kids’ meals slightly smaller heart attacks on a plate. The other was so invisibly out there and fighting that Borders is now out of business. Maybe if she’d pushed them to add smoking sections in the cafes?
I tried to tune out all 9/11 necro-narcissism while hoping the 10th anniversary of the Iraq invasion inspires more, and real, introspection. But when I heard the Chimp showed up for the memorials I could only imagine what the reaction would have been if a notorious cook had turned up at her victims-of-negligence funerals. Typhoid Mary, though, probably had more shame.
Just back from Turkey, I can’t begin to describe what luxury it was to be able to tune out the kkkraziness for 10 days. Unfortunately, some huge news from the homeland was inescapable. Apparently the Big O had burgers for his birthday lunch. This should settle it, though. What kind of muslin wants fries with Ramadan?
I saw a fair amount of mean-spirited chortling over the Big O joking that no one should get between his wife and a tamale. But once again, the way they eat illustrates how far this big old melting pot has come. Am I the only one old enough to remember when Gerald Ford humiliated himself by stuffing a tamal into his pie hole husk and all?
A Waikiki resort is now offering “GMO-free cuisine.” Which will make the birthers go even nuttier — could there be better proof Hawaii is really not America?