Way back in the last century, when Brie was too funky for me, I remember one of my overlords at the hometown paper saying his wife insisted they boycott the Coach House because she had spotted cans from processed-crap bouillon in the (pre-recycling-era) garbage. Today I’m followed all over the Internets by ads/links to that gruesome saline solution. It’s pretty bad when I’d prefer the Chimp’s dad’s garish socks — if only to strain out that little clot of creepy fat floating in every tin.