Rule No. 1 for persuading Americans to slow down and eat better: Whatever you do, do not invoke the name Saint Alice. Keep her and her blithely effete disconnect the hell away from your sermon. Otherwise, you’ll have readers gagging on your Araucana egg cooked over an open fire on a made-by-an-artist-friend’s spoon. Give me the proverbial fucking break. A Knoll Krest egg scrambled in real butter would be revelation enough for the average consumer of whatever the hell that rubbery yellow stuff is that’s slopped into McMuffins. Very odd that the self-anointed leading advocate of ingredients insists on a special tool and special “stove.” The saddest part was that it was one of the most inspiring and lyrical artists in the whole country who was rooked by this absurd pretentiousness. Next time her boots need to go walking cross-country, they might want to head toward Pollan’s place instead. At least he doesn’t kill a boar for every media drive-by.