Archive for the ‘egotist’ Category

At least the gravy F train was derailed

November 2009

I know foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, but it still seems kind of whiplash-y for the same copy generator to spew 101 make-ahead side dishes for Thanksgiving and then turn around and say “chill the fuck out” about Thanksgiving. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to start stuffing(!) Brussels sprouts or just shoot Martha Stewart.

Smoke that paprika

September 2009

In other insults to intelligence at the pompous powerhouse, the Drivelist had to be trifling with the truth. It’s the whisk that makes the mother sauce tricky, not the labor-saving device. Unless you’re an idiot. And an alert reader tipped me off to the contretemps the Egotist set off with the equivalent of making spaetzle and calling it macaroni. Amusing to see so many bitching he had made something minimal so very complicated. And it’s pretty bad when more than one commenter tells you to go watch Bobby Flay to get something right. . . .

Meatloaf photo courtesy of “Regrettable Food”

July 2009

One more sign we are living in end times: Someone actually managed to get a whole book published on ice cream mix-ins. I assume it was the opposite of 101 salads in agate, with “open M&M’s, blend well” in 96-point type over 128 pages.

What happened at Cook’s stays at Cook’s

July 2009

Some were impressed, I was amused at the Egotist’s ranking No. 8 among “columnists” on a new website that understands no one loves reading about the media as much as the media does. Turd Blossom, after all, is No. 12. And he at least writes more than extended headnotes. Meantime, that wannabe the Drivelist is spreading what I’ll politely call her foam even thinner. How can you advise “try smoked paprika” in so many words in so many places? As Appealing as Pap would be a pretty good name for a blog.

Tears of a Pierre

April 2009

There’s no escaping the Egotist now that he’s married up the editorial ladder. If he’s not on the radio reading self-righteously from a smarter thinker’s script, he’s slithering around trying to find a spotlight to dis teevee cooking shows. As if he never did any himself, of course. Really, could anyone seriously believe Julia Child showed a suckling pig roasting from beginning to bungholed end? Watching a lot of cooking is like watching herbs dry. Thirty minutes ain’t gonna do it. And Jeebus, the wine in her glass was not even wine. To think I always wondered how he could do a recipe or two a week without ever breaking a sweat. Now he’s barely winded on a self-aggrandizing marathon. Somehow I kinda doubt the fraud is in the prepped ingredients. It actually does matter how you chop an onion. And it helps if you have a cast of thousands.

Brazilian mussels

April 2009

The good news just keeps coming these days. One day I’m informed that baby broccoli (a k a sprouts) will ward off stomach cancer, the next it’s licorice kicking bowel cancer’s ass. Ever since the Franklin Mint famously went to the Pom land, the first question I have is: Who sponsored this miraculous discovery? And of course I sat right up in suspense the other morning, wondering when the writer of a damning op-ed on “free-range” pigs would disclose who exactly underwrote the study finding animals raised in filth on antibiotics are safer. I jokingly Tweeted and soon had an answer. Yep, it was your friendly National Pork Board. Those guys want you to eat pork like chicken; they certainly will not get fat and happier by promoting meat from small farms where pigs get to live as pigs should, the now-unnatural way. I can’t fault the catapulter of the propaganda. But I do wonder where the backstop was on the editorial side. As the Journal has demonstrated, you lie down with Turdblossom and you wake up with no credibility. If I were the cynical sort, I’d propose a piece on how endangered snapper is the answer to pirates in the Indian Ocean. Hungry Somalian researchers say it’s so. 

And that, of course, was the other big-laugh bonus of newspapers today. The Pollan Wannabe let his carnival mask drop and smart readers suddenly noticed he’s just talking the talk for maximum gain. And I would be bonding with all the alert readers who wondered where his editors were if I had not slogged through the Drivelist in gap-jawed fascination yet again. While she was dragging mollusks all over the kitchen in search of a nut graf, who could possibly look away long enough to wonder what the Google says? No worries, though. A Colbert shout-out is worth lost credibility any day. Just ask a certain new Dallas resident. 

Increasingly from the plant kingdom

March 2009

A bigger fascination is how someone who, as far as I ever read in the raw, never had a thought deeper than shrimp-shell stock has become the new go-to guy on eating right. Rewriting Michael Pollan in less fluid prose is a heckuva way to expand your franchise. But at least he’s reversing that hoary adage: Great artists steal. Mediocre ones borrow.

Mad cow and squirrel brains

January 2009

I will eat a raw egg in ice cream or eggnog or Caesar dressing, but a barely cooked one turns my stomach. Turns out just reading about it will almost bring up my breakfast. Yolks “gushing all over” flounder sounds right out of “Eraserhead.” At least we were spared the Drivelist’s pickles and ice cream combo. But I did enjoy the contradiction of having that upchucker run in the same section with a chestnut lede saying there are no super-fresh ingredients to be had in wintertime. Get your bogus ass out to the Greenmarket, Little Sir Echo Pollan. Sickening ideas obviously await.

Yes, Virginia, there are elves

December 2008

Okay, I get it. Readers fly into a tizzy over the size of a kitchen, and somehow the debate centers on equipment. Sounds like a classic case of mistaking the meat for the motion. . . .

Can’t you buy booze by mail?

December 2008

Sorta interesting to see the new mouth of sustainability showcasing asparagus in December. It would be one thing if the Greenmarkets were barren, but Bialas in my neighborhood had great greenery (and orangery) two days later. (No eggplant, though.) At least Dr. Pollan/Mr. Ray didn’t tout a commercial version of his own recipe just to get the goddamn thing into print one more year, though — and at the top of the chart of the Republican boondoggle-with-veal to boot. Retire that baby already. (Why was I reading this stuff? Mostly because I was looking for the Oo La La, but wasn’t the rest just ads? And that wouldn’t bother me if the selling-out had done anything for my sad stock.) The meanness toward the budding children’s book author continues, too — the peculiar correction on her predating UPI was like a spoof, of “Things Older Than John McCain.”

Crap-filled crustaceans

November 2008

I am so cynical I have to admit I am less worried about fish disappearing from the oceans than about who exactly is writing that alarmist blather (blathering alarmism?)  Once upon a time a byline was a byline. Poor old Craig has to be spinning to think of all the opportunities he missed as Max Headnote.

Shrimp shell Intrade

November 2008

With the insurance company going medieval on what it will pay for, I was too cheap to spring for the teevee in the hospital, so I had to settle for a morning paper on Obama’s big day. We get two newspapers delivered at home every morning, but until last week I never thought of them as the Dead Sea Scrolls. Unfortunately, I had all day to dwell on the content, and I was oddly pleased to see the Egotist back to his usual learning-to-use-a-clutch prose. When I think wafer, I conjure Mr. Creosote. That thickness in prosciutto would be good only for the sole. Obviously, paper isn’t what it used to be.


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