Dissertating about pimento cheese is like architecting about Legos. // With rhubarb and baking, it’s all known unknowns. // Sad to realize some rock salt is so outsized a dingbat Scout leader would try to break it down. // Have yet to see a functioning water dispenser in a Chase bank. Either water or cups always missing. Saving for $13 billion fine? //  How could you tell if feta went bad? // Think I liked the good old days when Vitamix hid naked chefs better than the content-obscuring bullshit does today. // So where does Tuscan go to get its reputation back? Looking at you, Subway, and that “chicken melt.” // Times will never say boo about real ghostwriters. Chicken if not shit. // Someone should sell Thanksgiving Escape Packages. // Mia held that revenge until it could be served very cold. // Guess no one in NYTmag cover meeting stood up to say: This food looks like shit. Overwrought shit from behind a dated curtain at that. // If you’re promised an “exclusive,” it ain’t fucking news. // Starting to realize I liked the food world so much better when it was a backwater, not a mosh pit. // Saying it again: Who could ever have imagined food “journalism” would one day require costumes? // And how can anyone advocate eating a creature this amazing?