gastropoda

The craziest notions sometimes turn up in my writeme inbox. The weirdest lately was the email promoting cheeses to eat while indulging in the Olympics. Which got me wondering if there has ever been a bigger gap between object and affection. Does anyone really sit in front of the teevee watching the beach volleyball competition and nibbling on taleggio in between schmears of Brie de Nangis? Look at the Fan in Chief, for war crimes’ sake. We’re talking Velveeta on a pretzel at best.

You know you’re getting ancient when hors d’oeuvres from Martha’s first books are passed and they don’t taste ridiculous. We were all wide-mouthed and innocent a quarter of a century ago, before the world was so awash in food information 24/7 that cartoon characters could be hired to throw ingredients around ridiculously on the teevee. Almost every other aspect of the quick roast at high heat, though, hit its mark, whether the Bitch wine poured beforehand or the explanation of why a fume blanc was served (Robert Mondavi coined the name — a spin on pouilly-fume — but was not so greedy as to try to trademark it). The Control Queen should only have been savvy enough to realize the best rule in pushover partying is very simple: First you marinate the neighbors.

So Martha Stewart is now doing wine. Bottled water must be so over. But her latest venture is still a reminder of who pays for sins in the land of equality. She got caught in a lie and went to jail. Scooter was convicted of multiple national security whoppers and walked. In a just world, he would be baking pretzels in hell. I guess we have to settle for seeing her keep on cashing in with Gallo.