Me, on waking every morning, still: And to think we were promised taco trucks on every corner . . .

Just to get the politics-is-policy stuff out of the way: The so-called prez wants to cut SNAP benefits when I have been ranting for years that food stamps should be rebranded supermarket subsidies, which you would think the “party of business” would be all for. I also keep getting sucked into a bizarre debate over whether a fruit-and-vegetable shortage or a disruption for automakers would be a worse consequence of closing the border. It makes me even more amazed that congestion pricing went through, because car dependency is apparently a hell of a drug. Fords over fruit? Mexico is not just sending avocados and tomatoes — at least half the produce section comes from there and Central America. What good are wheels if the produce aisles are empty when you get to the Piggly Wiggly?

Inneresting to see the whole Molto Ego scandale being treated as “one bad orange.” Everything’s fine now; nothing to see. Meet the new fud world, same as the old fud world. Also, too: Once an egoist, always an egoist. So the carrot color thing didn’t work out so well. The gadflying for Holy Foods kinda backfired. Why not swipe not just a name but a logo? The only amazement these days is that the Butter Guzzler is not back out on the national stage, letting her Confederate flag fly.

I keep justifying overindulging in sauvblanc, as the server in an Indian restaurant in Sydney shorthanded it, as a way of supporting New Zealand and the world’s most inspiring leader (#putawomanincharge). But I also have to acknowledge that liquid support comes at a cost. We took a winery tour of Marlborough Sound last summer and were almost sobered by the grown-and-raised-there bus driver who lamented, as we looked out on vineyards stretching for miles in every direction: “We used to have apple orchards. Now, it’s all grapes. We lost our birds.” At least that takes some pressure off Northern California. Wineries there can buy the stuff by the tanker load, bottle it in the USofA and charge as if it’s Cloudy Bay. 

Because we invite only the family we have chosen rather than those we were saddled with, our Thanksgivings are always liquid and raucous and fun, with a mix of old and new “strangers.” So much so that I didn’t get a chance to recount my favorite memory from the 23 feasts over the last 26 years in this dining room:  The time friends looked up mid-turkey to spot a woman in the apartment building across the street vacuuming her bedroom walls. Naked. But at least that was not as unsavory as my recollection of the November when I was living in L’ville and took the bus up to Dayton to meet a friend who escorted me to a cafeteria for our turkey&trimmings. I will leave to the imagination what it was like to ride hours home on a winding highway while lurching back to the bathroom to upchuck on the regular. So maybe that’s why those “real ‘mericans” are so enamored of the trash in the WH. He, too, ate like an Ohioan on the all-American feast day, walking the buffet line for his iceberg salad and pie, glorifying his plastic-gloved main dish as coming from the “carving station.” Allah help all the imported maids who had to clean up the literal shitstorm afterward. 

Just saw The Cat WCTLWAFW licked the jerk duck skillet. So I’ve put the WSJ section with Shelby Steele’s “why the left is consumed with hate” next to the bed to catch the inevitable hork.

No one talks about the real problem with having white supremacists in the White House: They’re doing their damnedest to keep refugees and other immigrants out when the melting pot needs regular re-seasoning. America can’t live on burgers alone. Didn’t Jesus say “no guacamole for immigrant haters”?

We bought “leather milk” to resuscitate two geriatric chairs. It’s the first fake stuff in this house. And it came with a joking warning not to “drink it or use it as a dairy product.” Nut “milks” should carry the same.

Online menus with no prices send a clear warning: steer clear. // Not sure “it’s tiki time” is the wisest subject line for flack pitch these days. // My inbox is a chronicle of food pages foretold. Spoon-fed stories are always the most filling. // Friend has booked a swanky hotel in NZ that describes itself as “the personification of luxury.” I’d be wary of the breakfast sausage. // Phone changed Puligny to Puking. But that liquor I can hold.

Things I coulda gone to my urn without hearing: “How do you know a restaurant is safe to eat it in? By the smell. It’s just like a nursing home.” Oh. Kay.

Also pretty rich to see the high holies all up in arms over a mere ice cream. We were just in Buffalo, at the Broadway Market, where we bought a Last Supper rendered in chocolate. At some point we will bite the head offa Chocolate Jesus and be able to thank the Catholic parishioners who molded it. Right now, though, I’m imagining someone Instagraming Sweet Jesus in an egg spoon. And blowing the world up.

Way back in the last century my consort and I took the Tabasco tour on an awesome trip through Cajun Country, and I still remember we were only allowed to see the factory through a window because of “liability.” I was pissed at the time but now see it was simply another reflection of how far ahead they are on issues. Now it’s global warming. Denial is a pretty crappy defense, even as sriracha eats their lunch.

Jimmy Carter was not far ahead of his time, although he did install solar panels on the White House roof 40+ years ago. All the news out of Mar-a-Lago, staffed by foreign workers, makes you realize how mean-spirited it was for Republicans to force him to give up his peanut farm. He coulda opened an agriturismo to sell access to his presidency. Not enough $lust in his heart, though.

One of my favorite people in the world, Italian-New Yorkese by way of Patagonia, says he is fleeing the kkkountry for Florence next week partly because he despises the feast of the Pilgrims. I haven’t checked in with the Instagram set yet, but food writers should agree. And this year my consort and I are going to be stuffing-free unless I heed my own advice. Also unless we lay in some Calvados. The trou normand would make an even better president than our cat. 

As a Twitter shut-in, I spend way too much time obsessing on kkkraziness. But on the day after a nutcase did what I worry about at every intersection on this tiny island, I especially kept flashing back on one of our half-dozen trips to real America in the last year. This one was at least rewarded with good food, and encouragement to come back. But the odds that I might be on the bike path in Lower Manhattan had a scary amount of friends checking in. My consort and I coulda just been making a wrong turn into Walmart in “real” America and never have wandered back out.