gastropoda

My consort and I were just at a wedding in the Catskills (where I had plenty of time to wonder why it is all divorce lawyers don’t have to be women — don’t the magic words say no man can put asunder?) The ride back was pretty harrowing because we set out early Sunday morning for the New York State Thruway, and all I could think about was the vodka-soaked mom who also set out on that hellish highway a couple of years ago, in the wrong direction. So I particularly enjoyed the huge restaurant billboard I spotted just outside Kingston: “Full Bar. Last Stop Before Thruway.” Funny how the terror alert is only on high in airports . . . .

Finally, I’m trying to train myself to focus over here rather than tossing off 140-ers over to the Twitter. Meantime, here’s a mix of what I merely thought and what I actually sent:

–Feeling like such a loser. Haven’t figured out a way to cash in on Julia’s 100th birthday . . .

–Happy for everyone who was happy to walk away with bling from Enron on 12th Street. But a large part of me feels the way I do when I see some bodega regular collecting a $2 win on 4,220 lottery tickets. . .

–You name a cat “Cinnabun,” don’t expect it to be adopted. Any more than you would a pit bull named Baconator.

–Burgers in the sky? Does no one remember the Eleventh of September?

–Please tell me weaner is not a word. I got that e-release and actually hoped the photo would be of Anthony’s.

–And I see new documents on Hitler’s habits present the best argument yet for carnivorism. Because he was a vegetarian, “he farted constantly.” And kraut will definitely do that more than foie gras.

Speaking of dog as dinner, though, I have to retell the story of our friend who traveled all through Vietnam for National Geographic while constantly feeling frustrated in his quest for duck. Only on the last night did his handlers understand he was not demanding dog.

Take a month or so off the bitching beat and the faux outrages fly right past. Was pink slime really a 24/7 obsession? Dirty eggs and filthier chickens? Chickenshit in the meat aisle? Pink slime from tuna? Salmonella from tuna sushi? You can’t even keep up, and certainly there’s rarely any followup. But I see everyone is determined to beat the food-deserts issue to death on a daily basis — anything that proves the poors don’t have it so bad is front-page news, even though figures lie and liars figure. As my consort always rails, every article/op-ed quoting or written by someone at a think tank should carry prominent notice of which way it leans. (Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine? Hide your fur!) Reality may have a liberal bias, but no one figures like a wingnut. (I did catch just enough of the scandale over the bugs busted for coloring drinks at Starbucks, thanks to both Colbert and the Murdoch mouthpiece. No one had better alert vegans to the bugs in their chocolate, their flour and, especially, their raisins. . .)

I keep railing that Amtrak really needs to work on its food service, although the WiFi could use some investment, too. I made the mistake on the way of not packing lunch, so I had to forage in the bar car, settling for a wrap made with a tortilla that could have encased a review copy in the mail. But the funniest thing was the very cool barman telling me, when I asked about the “menu,” “Everything’s good.” And that he liked the “Italian baguette” best, with its salami and ham, although he had also heard the egg-and-sausage biscuit was good except that “I don’t eat pork.” Please, no one tell him where bacon comes from.

My favorite restaurant typo lately: “Curside” service (Willard would not allow). And the stories about how Apple executives met in swankola restaurants to try to destroy competition on e-books made me think the wrong way of spelling one term might actually be right: price-fixed. Also, too, and kind of unrelated, this FB update almost works as a short story: “Claiborne memoir bought in Fort Erie for $4 bears a raised seal, ‘From the library of Felipe Rojas-Lombardi’.” So much food history, so little remembrance . . .

The other upshot of this was the flurryette of emails I got over to the Facebook. One brought up the most “galling” part of the original piece, to which I had to respond that I, too, know better about she who farts in public (or so her friend told me). There be elves in that smoke-filled townhouse.

And I’m so click-adept that most ads fly past me as I Twitter my life away. But one did catch my eye. Olives I can accept. No way in hell there is virgin coconut oil. Maybe 72 in heaven, though?

All the suggestions (often bizarre suggestions) for Oscar-themed party food and dinners made me wonder why, if Hollywood is having such troubles, studios aren’t making more movies set in kitchens or restaurants or around tables. Look what that did for “The Help,” and apparently it featured a shit pie. Other nominees missed the whole food boat (witness the struggling for good “Hugo” or “Midnight” homages). Americans are obsessed with food on any and all screens, and the huge overseas audiences keeping the film industry afloat would eat it up, too. Imagine the tie-ins: “The Artist II” Wheat Thins, “now with no audible crunch.”

Some recycling here: In one day I saw “enterance” and “osco bucco” and also Rocco’s food truck, and that last is the fork stuck in that trend: It’s done. Also in my travels around this little island I came across a mention of a “pea soup floater” and would not want to find that even in the litter box. I also see we can just skip Lent — the Easter candy has arrived. I was mostly amused while others were outraged that a nobody made the front page for losing her teevee gig over plagiarized recipes. It’s full circle for Ms. Perfect, from perp to victim. And finally: “Taste bud map of Italy” sounds like a boot in your mouth.

Someone on Twitter worried on #RIPWhitney Night that “we’re running out of actual legends.” Well, at least we still have the Semi Ho.

Also over to the Twitter I saw someone smugly quoting the silliest ex-Beatle saying everyone would turn vegetarian if slaughterhouses had glass walls. So how does that explain the huge boom in classes in breaking down whole animals, in online videos detailing everything involved from the first squeal to the final roasting of the head? The poor old sap’s been duped by Match.com so often he doesn’t understand it’s the making of soy hot dogs that would put people off their “meat.”

Best sign yet we’re living in a mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up world: Frappuccino bottles used as Molotov cocktails against Muslim and Hindu and capitalist targets alike. Plus the hometown paper is even giving guidance on why/how. We are now officially so far down the rabbit hole thanks to wingnut lies printed as truth that no one even freaks out over domestic terrorism. As long as the TSA kabuki artists keep confiscating cupcakes for “gel” frosting, we’re all safe. But now I’m realizing why some employees of the chain were shutting down its pissoirs: It must be to prevent reloading with inflammables. Definitely the few times I’ve ever waited forever at one I’ve been ready to lob something incendiary.

This Christmas it’s funny to see how the whole menu-sourcing overkill is spreading to tree lots. The other day we passed one on the Lower East Side with a big sign offering “hand-picked, super-late-cut Fraser firs.” Wait a minute. They weren’t grass-fed?

RTing & TweetLongering my note to those sorry flacks who have to compose eye-catching subject lines for e-blasts: Mouth-watering always makes me think of dogs drooling. Are they part of the 12 days of xmas? After geese a-humping?