I might have missed some news by sluggishly reporting a piece for Eater, but I did take away a big revelation: Print is still a BFD — indie magazines not only sell well, they command collectible prices. So it was no surprise to read a @carr2n column on the allure of the old way of reading. Which happened to include a nugget on what turns off readers from online ingestion — all those goddamn ads. And that reminded me why I get only two magazines delivered: one because I don’t know why, the other because my in-law equivalent just will not listen when I tell her it ain’t what it used to be. I hadn’t seen the Amex food pub in years before picking up a copy at a promo event, but I was amazed at how impossible its dense pages made discerning editorial from ads. No wonder people will drop 8 bucks for the likes of Modern Farmer. If they want nothing but ads, they’ll click on a listicle.
Archive for the ‘drivelist’ Category
I also enjoyed hearing an EO12thStWinner™ nattering on about the best filling for pumpkin pie: butternut squash! Take her to the Morton, Ill., cinema and seat her outside the canneries. Not a pie pumpkin to be seen. Meanwhile, the elusive buttercup? Find it in any supermarket. Usually next to the watermelons this time of year.
Funny to think how the fast the Butter Guzzler scandale went from all-N, all-the-time to nearly forgotten. So I shouldn’t be surprised the forthcoming cookbook is still forthcoming. I do wonder why there are no morals clauses in contracts, though. And I’m enjoying the notion of people mailing butter wrappers in protest when you know most fans can only afford margarine.
The other “lie down with dogs, wake up with butt scent” angle to the summer scandale is the way a longtime collaborator has suddenly gone silent as a ghost on their BFFness. All those cookbooks churned out together, and not even a whiff of her true colors was detected?
My Panchito tracker again alerted me he had horked up another hacktastic word salad, but I again made it only a graf in before clicking that tab straight off. The real amusement came over to the Twitter, where his BFF was lauding his singular wisdom as if her gig depended on it. And, even better, where a big name who actually can eat and write DM’d me to observe that “his lack of wit almost rises to the level of a medical condition.” Well, he did once sell a joke: the Chimp. Too bad it was a terrible one.
Nice to see the ghost of Time choosing only the Butter Guzzler as the fud world candidate for its 100 list. If it was trolling for linkbait, it succeeded. But surely someone, somewhere is doing anything more significant at a time when so much is changing for the better. I guess it could have been sicker, though: It could have chosen a ghost who was happy to slap her name on a spinoff of the cash-in on The Sugar. I guess we should never forget how James Beard made enough to buy that townhouse with the mirrored bathroom . . .
Relatedly, the sugar-water industry can keep fighting Big Gubmint restrictions or it can get smart. And move into the wine world. Already moscato is a top-selling fermented grape, and aside from the mild buzz, what sets that apart from Karo’s finest? Wandering through the big-case wine store near us the other day, I almost went into a diabetic coma just reading the chocolate-syrupy descriptions. And I walked out past a huge display of Jellybean wines. Which I assumed, this being the season for reincarnation, are liquid Peeps.
And if your bio is longer than your blithering introduction to a venerable book, you might need to worry about a tornado in a Colonial graveyard. The horseshit is six feet high and rising if you can actually imagine that a cook who was writing recipes for only what was on hard-scrabble offer was actually a locavore making a political statement. WTF else was she supposed to cook with? Tuscan olive oil and the finest sriracha?
Just saying: If you want to write about DIY mayonnaise this summer, there’s an actual news peg. The price on the commercial kind has suddenly gone caviar-high. We walked into a Gristede’s the other day, and right back out, on seeing Hellmann’s for $6.99 a 30-ounce quart. On sale — the regular price was $8.19. Even using Knoll Krest eggs and Planter’s peanut oil, you could make your own for less. Unfortunately, I pay for the permanence. Even the best homemade mayonnaise has the shelf life of local strawberries.
Also, too, I couldn’t slog through the dirge, but was Duncan Hines mentioned in the hometown paper’s onanistic ode to one of its own? Too bad for the premature exultation, too. One more day and they could have trotted out their guy to insist he was also responsible for evolving the Big O toward marriage equality.
Just wondering: How desperate for cash/credit would you need to be to take on the job of wrapping text around “Deen Crisco’s” recipes? Or even subcontracting it out? I guess this is proof that industrial pork is the best grease for a slippery slope.
And I Tweeted this earlier, but someone really needs to come up with a “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster for Thanksgiving. It’s just a big chicken dinner, although you’d never know it from the hometown paper. The whole year is spent sanctimoniously sermonizing about how easy and fun cooking is, and guilting anyone who prefers to fix food or eat out for convenience, and now it’s time to switch messages and freak everyone the fuck out? Also, too, if so many readers apparently want to kill their families rather than just find nice friends to eat with, why warn them about the stuffing?
It was amusing to see a trend story lead off with “A few years ago I noticed.” If it were an oil, that news would be rancid by now. Particularly now that more and more people are finally grasping the sanity ring on the nutrition carousel and noting that fat is not the killer it was cracked up to be. But even that was not as silly as a front-pager on chefs who insist on having it their way. The one that was so desperate for examples beyond dedicated steak restaurants that it had to dredge up examples both nebulous and imprecise. Not to mention seriously dated. Couldn’t that reporter send out a Yelp SOS?
I do hope there are no razor blades in the afterlife. Poor MFK would be slicing her wrists big-time on reading her mentee’s “savory taste” and “a delicious one at that.” And I could not get through the where-are-the-hosts-of-yesteryear BS and so had to rely on Twitter followers to confirm what I suspected — the likes of Zarela went unacknowledged. But I did read just far enough into the review to wonder where TF the editor was. I guess now that “real America” has decided there’s no money for 9/11 responders it’s okay to fantasize about explosions and fires outside an East Side restaurant. I still remember getting censored in reviewing then-rational James Lileks’ immensely entertaining “Gallery of Regrettable Food” in about 11/11 for mentioning one dish looked like something had blown up in the kitchen. We are all insensitive now.
Would it be too much to ask for a moratorium on cookbook authors claiming MFK Fisher as a mentor even though they never even met her? Somehow I suspect the last place she wanted to spend eternity was on the shoulders of headnote typists.