Lunch date mentioned a woman who wrote 70 cookbooks. More likely one cookbook 70 times. // Doesn’t “flavor’s only skin deep” imply all that rubbing will leave you thinking “tastes like chicken”? // Washing dishes, I always remember chefs put their names on some pretty shitty shit. // Stocking Halloween candy in stores before Labor Day should be a capital offense. // The everything bagel was a pretty dumb emblem for an NYC campaign. What, you’re seedy and hollow at the core? // Whenever I accidentally ingest papalo, I understand how cilantro haters feel . . . // Young power ladies lunch. Olds buy nights in the George V with chairs & knives. // And blame Columbus for ratatouille.

A market with a single farmer is just a stand. Apostrophes matter. // Always remember hearing of an 80s megarich socialite who would lunch at Le Cirque on a (plain) baked potato and a diet Coke. // Green Tea Jesus wept: a recipe for Rice Krispies Treats using matcha? // Never order a mixed drink in a beer bar. (Wine, I already knew.) // I guess we should feel glad wingnuts only want kids to starve, not be poisoned as in India. // Hope no one drowns at TCOT this year. // And things I enjoy typing: Oh, fuck the JBF.

Buttered necks are harder to choke. // DOMA Day would have been a good time for the Butter Guzzler to announce she was marrying a Lady. // Scary movie concept: “Last Tango in Savannah.” // “Literally anything you can think of, you can probably find on a cruise,” said Carolyn Spencer Brown, the editor in chief of Cruise Critic. Shit on a shingle, perhaps? // “A Hijacking” is one great movie about a cook, a fish, a goat and greed in a global economy. // Had papalo in my cemita. Now understand how people feel about cilantro . . . //  “Grade pending” is the new “keep out” sign in NYC. // Unfortunate sign at a farmers’ market: “I am standing for Turkey.” Breast or legs? // Specials are like tryouts in Philadelphia. But you’re paying for NYC tickets. // Chef is a grievously abused word. A 17-year-old w/out a kitchen staff? Does. Not. Qualify.

An heirloom tomato from a greenhouse is still just a hothouse tomato. // A photo of a pulled pork sandwich should never look like a used Kotex. // Would never want to be caught at happy hour with MoDo & Ginny Noonan. The bitters would flood the joint. // Not sure anyone ever wants Brussels sprouts in macaroni and cheese. But definitely not in asparagus season. // First time I tasted black truffle thought it was like something you’d scrape off your shoe bottom. // Tip for restaurants: Don’t have “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” playing while you keep people on hold forever . . . // If I were the grudge-holding sort, I’d wonder where the E-Rectum mob was when the Schnorrer recycled a feature that once made them grab their pitchforks to defend his originality. // Just read that “jewelry” falling into produce is a big threat to food safety. Yep, those diamonds on poorly paid fingers do carry the bacteria. // Excellent Colbert on the aspersions on the asparagus. // And pinot grigio is Italian for insipid.

Also, too: I came home from the 15 CPW commissary and Tweeted/FB’d that rich people don’t care about flavor. To which one Swift-savvy reader responded: Yeah, they eat the poors with ketchup without tasting them first.

Wondered what “white pinot noir” might be.  Turns out it’s “unpretentious rosé.” Or, the new white zinfandel. // First thing you learn when reporting on the bog on cranberries is that the people who produce them are adamantly not farmers but growers. // New rule: restaurant designers should have to eat a meal in every seat they cram in. (Walked out o’Fat Radish rather than face wall off bar.) // @DwightGarner read this memoir so we don’t have to. Ouch, to put it mildly. // Just found this Aldo Leopold: Humans are like the “potato bug, which exterminated the potato and thereby exterminated itself.” // Cheese: When it’s not snobbish indulgence of the elites, it’s junk food for the poors.  // Sometimes you can only tell mango by the color. // And the best dairy name ever has to be: SoyCow SoyMilk. (Video should show udders on the beans.)

Tweezers are fine cooking’s way of saying: Slow down, you’re eating too fast. // I misread Pollan as Palin and thought Monty Python was back with a cheese nun sketch. // Cheerleaders are trouble. // With fish, baked is another way of saying fucked. // “Fat kebabs sweating on spits” would put you off your Istanbul dinner. // So scrapple is the new lard? (Sorry. Does not compute.) // Flair/flare is the new palate/palette. // Not even 1 1/2 shades of grey. // And guess we have to wait 60 years to hear the Chimp’s taster come clean. Although that poor woman would have been restricted to pretzels and hot dogs, not asparagus and pasta.

Also, too, I started to post this but thought better of it, given the loons loose on the series of tubes: “Instead of trying to save the ducks (as if), these people should get (mental) help for themselves.” Considering I was uncharacteristically too timid to Tweet, I’d say terrorism works.

America: Where the women are butchers and the pigs are nervous. // If you want your fud-world book read, spring for the index. // Blanked out where I read someone referring to something tasting like angel food cake. Shorter description: Like nothing. // Official end o’ Internets: RT @LaughingSquid: True Facts About The Duck by Ze Frank via @linecook // There’s a difference between a chef’s “rip” on a classic and his “riff.” One is both less aromatic and less ignitable. / / No calf’s liver, please. We’re PETA.

Sunripe is a shrewd brand for tomatoes: leave off the s for truth in labeling. // Other people’s enviable trips were easier to stomach when you had to wait a month to get a postcard . . . // Funny to see “farmers’ market roasted vegetable tacos” on a menu after just leaving a Greenmarket selling mostly potatoes and beets. Gracias, no. // Overheard obviously new cat owners at Petland today, reading can labels: “What cat eats lamb?” Um. Any that get a chance? // Wondering, as always with OpenTable: What does it profit a restaurant to appear fully booked online if it suffers the loss of half the dining room?

Never turn your back on lemon curd. // It’s amazing food writers don’t egg houses on Easter. // Listening to yet another Peeps piece on Marketplace– God must be so proud his son’s big day is most associated with processed crap. // How long till there’s a Best Bi Chef award? // They were sap-sucking and using reverse-osmosis in 1992 in Vermont, but I guess news travels slow. // And it’s not as if anyone might need food in Oakland, or anything . . .

There’s a difference between mixed nuts and nut mix (it’s all in the “tack blend”). // The latest in TSA kabuki: You can bring a knife on a plane but still need to use plastic in an airport restaurant. // I saw @Bourdain in the ladies’ room. At Bacchus. (Actually a “Guts & Glory” poster over the sinks.) // Mignardises in Buffalo are Styrofoam kittybags.

Once upon a time did people really dine for Darfur? // Doritos should have a caballo flavor. // Whole Foods cashiers are painfully slow. At least there aren’t many of them. // Only god (AKA nature) can “make” cabbage. // Nice of nature to send snow for grossest NYC parade (firemen had open-carry on D train at 11): fell on all the living and the drunken. // Someone needs to tell WSJ that @JenniferMcLagan said it all & much better in her book. Five years ago. // “Floater” is also a word never to be used in connection with anything eatable/drinkable. That’s plumber talk. // So many food blogs contain so much horseshit you’d think it was a gluten-free ingredient.

Musical Monday in a restaurant sounds as if beans are involved. // IBM’s Pastry Chef Watson could go straight to work for the Cheesecake Factory (“Spanish” breakfast pastry contains saffron, black pepper, honey, almonds and cocoa — just needs raspberry Doritos). // I’ve finally tasted  the real pink slime. It ends in berry. //  Guess I’m not the target audience. I won’t buy a cookbook just cuz there’s cleavage in the trailer. // And it sounds like the Queen ate Taco Bell. . .