As faithful readers (which I think might only be Blake Nelson) know, salt might be ground zero in the food wars. Used by real people to season and preserve their food for centuries, readily available and cheap, salt has nonetheless been made artisanal and precious and particular by foodies who can’t leave well enough alone. Salt happens to be one of the few things Meatball and I really know about food—remember the time we figured out that Scrabble Cheez Its have less salt than regular Cheez Its all on our own?
And salt isn’t just for food! You can use it to spite the devil, disinfect your wounds, clean your house, test to see if eggs are bad, and about a million other things, including protection againt demons:
When the devil is knocking at your door, do you really want to be messing around with your $125 Artisanal Bamboo Salt Chest?
When I saw this Fetus Cookie Cutter I assumed that it—like all right-thinking, logical, feeling, empathetic entities—was intended to be pro-choice. But now I’m not so sure. Perhaps scary Operation Rescuers and other antis will serve them to the women they kidnap who are on their way to have a constitutionally-protected medical procedure. Perhaps they were alien cookie cutters that didn’t sell. Perhaps they are a representation of my inner self.
PS: Here’s something really deep I just realized: Fetuses can’t navel-gaze because they don’t have navels. Put that on your menstrual calendar.
I wonder if they’ll make a kale-scented one next year?
For some reason or other, perhaps because we used to update this blog, the lovely folks at Specialty Foods Magazine have been sending copies to Meatball and myself since 2010 or so. (Apparently a subscription is Very Official—both our subscriptions come to my house, which prompted my mail carrier to add her name to my mailbox. I think she can get on my insurance now.) We should probably tell them to cancel but it is an amazing read. My favorite coverline so far is this month’s:
ANCIENT GRAINS TO WATCH
Never turn your back on an ancient grain! Amaranth will cut you as soon as it will look at you, and quinoa is probably picking your pocket right now. Sorghum and kamut? Forget about it.
What I don’t get, and what I just realized is my point because I had Cheerios for dinner and crackers for breakfast, is that why the anti-carb cartels aren’t using ancient grains to their advantage. If you think about it, every civilization that once at those grains is dead. A true fact, and proof that carbs kill, if you ask me.
As if books and blogs weren’t enough, foodies are now seriously being awful. A Times story today stunned us with the news that “There has been a recent rise in street corner slaughterhouses and urban animal husbandry.” JFC! and KFC! DID NO ONE READ THE JUNGLE BUT ME?
It’s possible I’m not good at writing snappy headlines anymore but you guys, remember when food stuff was way more INDIE and AUTHENTIC? A former Grub Street editor does!
As late as the mid -’90s, small, weird restaurants were the exclusive purview of a few zines and newsletters, like Jim Leff’s “Chowhound” and Robert Sietsema’s “Down the Hatch.” But in the long run, these small and agile mammals outran the immense, omnipotent beasts who ruled the forest.
I’m not really sure what Jurassic Park has to do with it, but no one cool ate anything in the 90s, dude. I guess he has bigger things to worry about:
I’ve been in a bad marriage, survived a doctoral program, suffered obsessive episodes requiring medication, lived with a girlfriend who worked as an escort, struggled to keep a business afloat, been in tax trouble and written nine books—and I have never felt the kind of pressure I did when I was helming Grub Street.
MY GOD. I won’t quote any more but you should read it, if only for the laugh you will produce when he mentions a “journalistic sarlacc.”
“Method-actor captains and decent-sculptor waiters; tattooed chefs de partie, willowy hostesses, bookish sommeliers…”
One of these things is not like the other, Sam Sifton.
McDonalds belatedly getting on the bacon bandwagon with these hilarious ironic images is about as painful as reading a NYT story on hip hop.
The brilliant minds at Slash Food loved this gimmicky egg with an omelet recipe on it but failed to mention the obvious flaw—once you break the egg and start cooking, the recipe is gone.
That said, more things should come with tips on how to kill them.