It’s only two years now, but I’m starting to suspect Mrs. O kinda likes fucking with the kkkrazies. After she’s been declared a nutrition nazi, she puts not one but two sausages on the Super Bowl menu, plus cheeseburgers and deep-dish pizza and stuffed potatoes and wings and ice cream etc. You’d almost think she was a real American.
Post Category → Mrs. O
Halibut, pounded through a pie hole
Lost-in-translation of the week: One of the British papers dutifully reported on the made-for-denutted-media outburst by Wasilla’s own Taco Crunch Supreme but didn’t realize she wasn’t reaching for “some more ingredients” in trashing the regal Mrs. O. I guess I can’t blame the reporter and editors for not knowing what marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey bars add up to. Whenever I read a hed using “pud” from their side of the Atlantic, I want to spell it out, too.
As the good Nestle dubs it: Agri-culture war
Thanks to Obamafoodorama, I see Mrs. O has decked the White House with boughs of cranberries and pomegranates and other edibles. I hope she’s ready for the shitstorm from the kkkrazies who’ll be upset she isn’t using Double Downs and Happy Meals and other real American food. Only traitors don’t need insulin.
Let ’em eat pretzels
Some other random thoughts: American cheese will have finally arrived when any story about a store specializing them does not refer to processed Kraft in the lede — it’s been a long time that no one has been wrapping Vermont Shepherd in plastic singles. And the dustup in DC over the ban on chocolate milk in schools makes it even more clear that Americans are enslaved by Big Food (does everything need raspberry-chocolate-ranch flavoring?), although I wonder if kids might like the white stuff better if it were whole and not skim or whatever watery crap they’re being served. And, cynical as I am, I actually felt proud to be an American when Mrs. O took the foreign dignitaries’ wives to lunch at Blue Hill at Stone Barns. I’ve only been once to eat, but the place feels like France. Now we have Freedom Food to show off in our own country. And Saint Alice was not involved.
Permission to bring older Riojas
I know the first black First Lady can’t pick a chocolate brown pepper without getting slimed by the knuckle-draggers for being an out-of-touch, overspending elitist, so it’s fascinating to realize the same press corpse that dutifully regurgitates the rabid foaming is so clueless, too, and not just at the Rupert Rag. Vacation or not, was this really the best time for a wine writer to be reporting back on an oh-so-fortuitous reservation at/expedition to one of the most expensive restaurants in the world? The big debate this week, after all, was whether a country drowning in debt from two wars could afford both food stamps and improved school lunches. Thank allah for Stephen Colbert’s mega-cojones in going before the House to talk about who’s picking our cheap lettuce and tomatoes, and why. To the “serious” “journalists,” and the lobbyist-owned Congresscritters, it was all a stunt. To the rest of America, it looks as if they all deserve some serious corn packing.
Going Gaultier
Just back from Buffalo, I’m pretty amazed at how quickly the poison of the wingnuts’ indictment of Mrs. O for vacationing in the land of “gazpacho soup” seeped into the water supply. In the local counterculture weekly, I spotted an ad for a restaurant that showed her face over a Marie Antoinette reference. Maybe it was meant to be so out-there it was in. Or maybe they forgot “let ’em eat organic carrots” is what’s elitist now.
So who boozed it up in Saint-Tropez?
Shrinks are obviously on vacation this month, because the craziness just keeps escalating. Some of the silliest was over Mrs. O’s trip to Spain (where, you know, they speak Mexican) and her daring to eat “gazpacho soup” with the king. I have one suggestion for anyone who worries too many tax dollars were wasted on security for her: Check out the tab for keeping Go Fuck Yourself undead. . .
That explains the Russian Tea Room
I have to say I was shocked, shocked to read the comments on one provincial paper’s website after Mrs. O had the audacity to take the kids to Grimaldi’s. (She’s a Communist, she’s spending taxpayer dollars, yadda-wacko-and-out.) There is good news, though: Wingnuts grow in Brooklyn. Which means it has not been totally overtaken by the food hipsters.
And “macaroons” are the new cupcakes
Funny to see news outlets scrambling to be sure Mrs. O’s huge anti-obesity movement is covered by all the wrong people (“eat as I say, not as I do,” in one case). But at least the Time Tool was not unleashed on the anti-Big Food beat. Following in the sordid tradition of the Coulter/Molto blow jobs, he let the fastest food take him for a royal ride. Did you know the Big Mac has a chef behind it? Yeah, and so does all the shitty airline food. He actually swallows the catapulted propaganda and mentally transfers a high-end lunch with celeriac and salmon to the crap wraps the “most influential chef in America” claims to have innovated. And believe me, the reason the flack freaked when the chef mentioned poached pears was not fear of copycat competitors. She had to know the chance of something like that winding up on the diabetes menu was about as likely as a frequent flier ever tasting Todd English’s food in steerage.
Gracias, Gawker, for “Cajun hobbit”
Thank allah for “Iron Chef.” To put all the ridiculous disillusionment with the Big O in perspective, it was only a year ago that the White House was occupied by a useful idiot whose idea of a good meal was a pretzel and an O’Doul’s, with his wife nowhere near to catch him as he fell. Now half the political wisecrackers I follow are Tweeting on Mrs. O and her stronger-than-Alice crusade to get Americans to eat better. If the tradeoff is a little orange tainting the White House, I guess it’s worth it.