FOOD ON THE FOOD

Sugar Mama

We’re still working our way through the Halloween candy, if you can believe it. We (the kids, I mean) got an unbelievable amount this year, probably because it was so warm outside that everyone was in a good mood, raining entire bags of candy in the vicinity of outstretched plastic pumpkin buckets.

We’ve been rationing out the loot to the kids if they eat a good dinner: two pieces for them, two pieces for mommy. That means they each get to pick out one for me—their choice—although I have absolute veto power over Smarties, Tootsie Rolls, NECCO wafers, or basically anything that’s not a Snickers, Milky Way, Kit Kat, Twix, Butterfinger, you get the idea. Husband gets an automatic Almond Joy.

As the First Grader was agonizing over what he could possibly spare from his dwindling reserves, the 4YO, who is still unclear on the concept of consequences, handed me a two-pack of peanut butter cups with a smile. Score! Husband looked on in disgust:

Him: (to the First Grader) Watch out. She’ll trick you out of your best candy.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: Notice that she doesn’t deny it.

Me: (chewing) ...

Him: She’s got guilt written all over her chocolate-smeared face.

Me: (still chewing) ...

He can say whatever he wants. I know my Miranda rights.

Snap. Crackle. Poop.

Recently, Husband came home from the store with this:

My first thought, in my chemo-weakened state, was that he was breaking up with me.  That maybe this was a Dear John letter in cereal form, fortified with extra vitamins and minerals to help me cope with the news.  Things have been getting a little too weird around here and maybe we should just be friends.  “Good” friends.  But only friends.

Then I looked more closely at the box.

Just look at her face.  They’re clearly not just friends.  Not even “good” friends.  They’re most definitely friendly enough to be enjoying breakfast together the next morning, and most likely breakfast in the vicinity of an event that nearly BLEW THEIR MINDS.  It wasn’t the cereal that blew their minds.  That I can tell you with certainty. 

But what sort of event would that be?  Perhaps the insanely happy expression on their faces has something to do with second chances and unexpectedly finding new love in later life.  (I’m guessing that they’re newly entangled because couples who’ve been married for 40 years do not wear that particular expression on their faces except for very special occasions.  And breakfast is not one of them.)  So it could be the love thing, but it’s not.  Could it be the residual glow of unspeakable carnal pleasures that took place between two people who bring a combined 80 years of experience (at least) to the table (or wherever)?  Tempting to assume, but, again, you would be wrong.  It’s something much, much more than that.   Something that can only be had after waiting a really, really long time for something really, really big.  And I think you know what I’m talking about. 

Dumps. 

Maybe simultaneous dumps.

That is the only explanation for the look on their faces.

“Good Friends” promises 50% fiber and my guess, based on the picture alone, is that it delivers.  I really hope so.  I’m still waiting.  Many important friendships depend on it.

Insert Cherry Joke Here

Last month, we picked a whole bunch of cherries from Carver Hill Orchard in Stow, same as last year.  As I popped out the stems, rolling the orbs around in my mouth and pushing the stones out with my tongue, I thought about what flavors would work well with them.  Almonds, I thought.  Maybe the woodsy character of fresh rosemary.

So, I got to work on a tart.  I stripped the leaves from a sprig of rosemary into a mortar filled with sugar and ground it with a pestle until the leaves just started to abrade.  The idea was for the essential oils to be transferred to the sugar so the leaves could be sifted out.  I made a lovely lard crust, loaded it up with the pitted cherries and rosemary sugar, and sprinkled it with slivered almonds.  The result?

DIS. GUS. TING.

It was the worst pie I’ve ever made.  Ever.  The herbal “tinge” I was going for was harsh and overwhelming.  Like cough syrup, but chunky.  I would have sooner eaten chicken fried in castor oil.  (I did eat the crust, though.  At least that which was untainted with the blood of a thousand defiled cherries).  I really hope this new trend of mine, to derive culinary inspiration from the field of medicine, is only temporary.

A Long Overdue Conversation With My Dad

Even before a certain newspaper said certain things about the language on a certain blog, my dad has been chastising me for my “risqué” word choice and wayward subject matter.  Last Sunday was no different, except for the menu, which was (I’m almost ashamed to admit) bacon, cinnamon buns, hash browns, and mimosas.  It was the Lord’s day, after all.  (Apparently, the Lord doesn’t like vulgarity or vegetables.)

Me: So let me get this straight.  You’re trying to censor me?  On my own blog?

Him: I’m just saying you might want to tone it down a little.

Me: I am toning it down a little. 

Him: No, the bad language has definitely gone up over time.  If I were to go back to your earlier posts…

Me: Please don’t.

Him: …and chart a graph of profanity…

Me: A graph of profanity?

Him: …yes, a graph of profanity, I think you’d see that it has steadily gone up over the years.

Husband: It has.

Me: (to Husband) Oh, like you should talk.  (to Dad) So what?  It’s not like I’m using the f word in front of the kids.  We’re all adults on my blog.  With the possible exception of me.  I think I’m rather elegant in its usage?

Him: Elegant?

Me: Or something.

Him: Right.

Me: Maybe I like to swear.

Him: Apparently.

Me: Or maybe I’m rebelling.  You know, you did get off easy when I was a teenager.

Him: Rebelling?  What could you possibly have to rebel against?  You have the perfect father.  Modest, too.  The best kids.  The best…

Husband: …husband.

Him: …fine, the best husband.  See?  What’s to rebel against?  Everything’s coming up roses. 

Hmmmm.  That’s a toughie.  I wonder what in the fuck I could possibly be rebelling against? 

Sauerkraut Sadness

So, I let my sauerkraut sit just a little too long unattended and it rotted into a pile of brown, yeasty garbage.  It would seem that my strategy of putting the crock somewhere where we couldn’t smell it completely backfired.  Last year, the stench was my daily reminder to give it a little TLC.  At least peek in there.  Maybe rinse off the plate and the water jug weighing everything down.  Without the near-constant assault on my senses, though, benign neglect quickly turned into something decidedly more malignant. 

Sometime after the 20-day mark, all of the brine evaporated so that the cabbage was no longer submerged.  Remember Rule #1 of sauerkraut: the brine needs to completely cover the cabbage at all times to protect it from spoilage.  It must have been all the dry air.  Last year’s sauerkraut didn’t have this problem, but water content varies from cabbage to cabbage.  Had I been more consistent in my spot checks, I could have just added more salt water as needed.  Oh well.  You win some, you lose some.  I’m starting a new batch this week and, this time, I won’t fuck it up. 

And speaking of swearing, the Boston Globe reviewed my blog last week along with several others.  The Globe’s been very generous with their attention lately, so I really hope they’re planning on staying in business!

A Letter to KitchenAid

Dear KitchenAid:

I’m sad.  After only eight years of service, my beloved stand mixer is shot.

I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.  I got it as a wedding present.  It was one of those industrial-strength models with arms for extra stability, and it came with a note from one of my relatives that read, “Guaranteed to outlast your marriage!!!” or something heart-warming like that.  But guess what?  We’re still married.  And the mixer?  Kaput. 

This won’t do.  You see, I only got married for the KitchenAid.  That’s right, you heard me.  Do you think I could have afforded a luxury like that on an entry-level Spanish major’s salary?  No way.  Matrimony was my ticket to hands-free mixing for the rest of my life, ‘til death do us part.  Or so I thought.  The vows were a little unclear.  Now, I find out that KitchenAids don’t even outlast the average marriage.  In the U.S.  That ain’t good. 

Here’s how it all went down.  I was making bread.  I don’t usually use the mixer for bread dough because the motor, even at its lowest speed, always sounds like it’s going to have a heart attack.  Then I feel compelled to stand there and babysit it so it doesn’t waddle its way over to the counter’s edge and fling itself off in an act of euthanasia.  But I was on my third or fourth loaf of bread that month and my arthritis was starting to object to all the kneading, so I plugged in the dough hook, made the sign of the cross, and let the slappity-slapping begin.  After just a few seconds, the dough hook went dead.  The motor kept running, but the part where you plug in the attachments wouldn’t rotate even in an empty bowl.  In the weeks since then, I’d plug it back in periodically and turn it on to see if it was all just a bad dream, but no.  Finally, when I laid the defeated appliance on its back to copy down the serial number in order to write just such a letter as this, it hemorrhaged oil all over my counter. 

So, tell me, KitchenAid, what can be done?  I feel betrayed.  In these desperate economic times, can I count on you to stand behind the quality of your product and uphold the family values for which you have traditionally stood? Tell me the American dream still exists.  Tell me you will resurrect my fallen mixer at no charge to me.  And then tell me that, this time, it will outlast my marriage.  Because a girl needs something to cling to in her golden years.

Love,
Tammy Donroe

Aren’t We Overreacting To Our Poisonous Food Supply?

Here’s this week’s column up at BlogHer:

I mean, really. Salmonella-roasted peanuts? Vegetables full of E. coli. Corn syrup leaking out of broken thermometers into our cereal? Or something? What’s the big deal? The fact is, you’re 42 times more likely to be hit by a car on your way to the supermarket than to be poisoned by your groceries. I mean 41 times. Aaaaand now make that 38.

I don’t mean to trivialize the situation. As of today, contaminated peanut products were responsible for 575 illnesses and eight deaths, leading to one of the largest food recalls of all time. I’m not insensitive. I’m just saying it’s all relative. It’s nothing compared to the 30,000 anaphylactic reactions and 200 estimated deaths per year from eating perfectly good nuts and shellfish. There’s no need to panic!

What’s that? Okay, somebody just chimed in that more than half of these illnesses happened to children. So scratch the peanut argument. It’s going nowhere. Let’s just put adult faces on the numbers from now on, shall we? Like last year’s salmonella-tainted tomatoes from Mexico that sickened 1,200 people. That’s a lot of people, but it’s not like anybody died. At least, nobody could prove it was from the tomatoes. People die everyday and sometimes it’s just their time.

If you reach way back in your memory to 2006, you may recall that spinach sullied by E. coli killed three people and hospitalized a whole bunch more. Everyone was all, “How could this happen? Didn’t you wash the spinach?” And we were all “No, the label said you didn’t have to. That’s why we bought it.” And they were all, “What? Don’t you know we just slap some words on the label in whatever order is going to sell the product? Where’s your common sense?” And we were all, “I…don’t…know...”

The point is, that was dumb. You can’t ever believe anything anybody tells you, especially if it’s printed on a label. My kids tell me they don’t need a bath, and do I believe them? No. I plunge those little bundles of E. coli into soapy water no matter what they say.

But enough about filthy humans. Let’s talk about downer cows. Last year, more than 143 million pounds of beef were recalled, not because any person got sick but because the cows themselves were sick. And not just because they were sick, but because someone snuck in with a video camera and taped the sick cows being forklifted over to the slaughtering area. It’s weird because, if that videotape hadn’t surfaced, we never even would have known about it. All that beef would have been in circulation. Beef from cows that may or may not have carried mad cow disease, 37 million pounds of which were headed for school lunch programs. It’s also strange how sick feedlot cows get even though they’re pumped full of antibiotics night and day. It’s almost as though there must be some kind of explanation.

But, who cares about the cows? If we gave a crap about the cows, we wouldn’t be feeding them our leftover manufacturing waste products. What we should really be upset about are the puppies and kittens. Sixteen animals died and 14,000 got sick in 2007 from pet food contaminated with melamine from China. In fact, if it weren’t for that, it’s entirely possible we wouldn’t be paying any attention to our food supply whatsoever. It’s a well-known fact that people treat their pets far better than the rest of their families. Other potential facts: China’s unscrupulousness and our own government’s seeming inability to safeguard our food pipeline.

And do you know what’s funny about that? Now, even China doesn’t want our peanuts.

Pseudo-Chef Resurrected Once Again: Squash Edition

Guess what somebody Googled the other day, the parameters of which brought them straight to my blog?   Go on, guess.  No, wait, you’ll never guess. 

“How to fuck a squash” 

I kid you not.  And Food on the Food was number 1 out of 731,000!!!  Hmmmm.  I guess that’s what I get for being so loose with the four-letter words on my blog.  

Really, guy, I’m sorry to disappoint you with my paltry information on the subject, but if you’re that determined, I’m pretty sure you can figure it out for yourself.  Might I just suggest, however, that sex with an actual person is probably a whole lot more satisfying than sex with a vegetable.  Though having not had sex with too many vegetables in my time, maybe I’m not the best person to ask.  It’s just that squash tends not to be all that…animated.  Usually.  But I guess we’ve all had our dry spells.  So, anyway, roasting it is probably better than raw, I’m guessing (maybe 400°F for an hour?).  That should also make it easier to cut the hole.  Letting it cool a bit is a good idea.  (Men, let me know if I’m way off.  I don’t know what you all do in your spare time.)

I’m really surprised this never came up in our squash usage brainstorm last winter.

Anyway, for those of you who came here looking for something slightly less pornographic, here’s something better you can do with your extra squash.  Something very good, actually, from a blog you should know about.  Something that will hopefully erase any mental images of violated gourds.

It’s Electric

Today, at Codman Farm, I had the intense displeasure of seeing the beef freezer completely empty.  WTF?  Why is everyone so interested in local beef all of a sudden?  (P.S. This is the last time I’m sharing my local sources on the interweb.)

My consolation prize was to stock up on bacon and eggs, which, I’ll admit, did console me.  Temporarily.  Until I was jolted back to discomfort by the realization that, in my dreamy state, I had just allowed the Toddler to be shocked by the electric fence surrounding the goats. 

Oh, shit!

Did you know that goat kids and human kids respond similarly to electric shocks?  They respond quickly and without objection.  And the remorse is sincere. 

Parents respond, too:

Me: What kind of a mother are you?

Me: There’s no sign.  Oh look, now I can see where it’s hooked up to the electricity.  Wow, I bet that really…hurt.

Me: Go touch the fence.

Me: Why?

Me: To find out how bad it was.

Me: I’m scared.

Me: Have you no maternal instinct?

Me: Look, I would gladly touch the fence if it was going to spare him pain, but I don’t really think me touching the fence after the fact is going to help anyone. 

Anyway, I didn’t touch the fence.  The Toddler, with the extra sympathy he received, was back to a somewhat subdued version of his normal self in under 60 seconds.  So now I’m wondering if it would be wrong to employ electric fence technology in our own home?  Like encasing the Preschooler in a cage of low voltage to keep the Toddler from beating the crap out of him every minute of every day?  Any thoughts?

Potato Salad for the People

So, I hear that Chris Kimball, who presides over the Cook’s Illustrated/America’s Test Kitchen/Cook’s Country media empire, doesn’t like his recipes to be tampered with.  (Now, that’s a newsflash!  It’s like Nazi Germany in that test kitchen.)

The blogosphere is in a tizzy over the spanking Kimball’s PR rep gave Melissa at Alosha's Kitchen for posting an adaptation of a Cook’s Country potato salad recipe on her blog.  Which she had courteously credited.  You can get the short version of the story here, or the longer version here. 

I don’t want to take sides, but this is what I’ve gleaned from my blessedly brief foray into copyright law as it seems to be interpreted by our favorite bow-tied cook/publisher:

CI/ATK/CC Fair Use Policy

You can cook our recipes, but only if you’re going to do it right.  You can discuss the recipes, but not on the Internet.  Unless you have permission, which we probably won’t give you.  No modifications or improvisations of any kind are allowed.  We didn’t do all that work for nothing.  (Get your hand away from the spice cabinet—that’s not what the recipe says!)  Also, we did not approve the use of flash photography.  You may, however, draw a picture of your meal, as long as you’re one of our certified artists.  But not if you stink at drawing.  As for the finished dish, let us taste it first and then maybe you can eat it.  Maybe.

That seems like an awful lot of trouble for some potatoes in a little mayonnaise, but I guess running a perfection-based business is no small feat.  Which brings me to my reason for posting.  It must really suck when somebody beats you to perfection.  Especially someone of my questionable talent.  But I seem to have stumbled onto a potato salad that people just will not stop eating.  God, why won’t they stop?  Save some for me.

Really, it couldn’t be any simpler.  My dumb cat can make it.  It was tested maybe three times, without measuring spoons, by a panel of one (1.5, if you count Mr. Nathan).  Still, I’d be willing to submit it to the Cook’s Illustrated taste testers for critique.  They’re uncanny.  If you spit into one of their pies, they can totally tell which one.

Potato Salad for the People

Oh, come on, lighten up.  It’s potato salad, for crying out loud.

12 medium red-skinned potatoes from your farmer, scrubbed (maybe 2 lbs.?)
1 small red onion, large dice
2 Tbsp. chopped fresh dill
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard (or more; sometimes I use prepared horseradish)
1 cup or so of mayo (sometimes I sub in lowfat yogurt for part of this)
1 tsp. salt (heaping is best)
Lotsa black pepper (yes, lotsa is a standard unit of measurement in my kitchen)

Boil potatoes in their jackets in a pot of salted water, 20-25 minutes until easily pierced with knife but before they explode.  Drain and let cool.  Do not peel.

Take about half of the potatoes and mash them in a large bowl or pot.  Yes, mash them good, as if you’re Chris Kimball and the potatoes represent the very soul of cooking.  With the remaining potatoes, mash them ever so gently so that you end up with large chunks of potato that break along their own natural fault lines.  Add the onion, dill, mustard, and half of the mayo, and start mixing.  Add more mayo until you get the consistency that you, the people, are looking for.  I like it thick, so you can scoop it with an ice cream scoop and put it on a cone if you feel like it.  Just kidding, Chris Kimball (blowing kisses).  I’m never going to work in this town again, am I?  Add salt and pepper to taste.  Chill for several hours.  Share it with your friends.

(Don’t try to steal this, Chris Kimball.  It’s copyrighted.)

(I’m serious, I have my eye on you.)

I Always Knew She Was a Terrorist

Okay, fine.  I’ll put down the sander and write something about Rachael Ray.  Sheesh.

It’s been a long time coming, Ms. Congeniality, but you’ve finally been outed as the terrorist you are.  God.  I mean, all that smiling should have been the first clue.  There’s absolutely nothing in this world worth smiling that much about unless you have murderous jihad on your mind.  And her constant cooking?  I hear terrorists love to cook things up.  And when they set the timer for 30 minutes, they really mean exactly 30 minutes.

As for the scarf, I can’t really get too worked up about it.  No matter what you call it, it’s just a goddamned scarf.  To me, a scarf symbolizes a warm neck and little else.  But ask anybody and they’ll tell you I’m not much for accessorizing.  I do wear pants, however.  Are the terrorists known to don the occasional trouser?  And will I, therefore, no longer be allowed to wear pants?  If so, thank Allah, because I’m sick of putting them on every time I have to leave the house.

Anyway, I’m willing to let the scarf go, but I still think Rachael Ray should be added to our Most Wanted list for her other crimes against humanity.  Along with Michelle Malkin for trying to dictate a dress code for Americans.  That’s often the first step in your garden-variety extremism. 

As for you, Dunkin’ Donuts, you may have surrendered this battle the same way you gave up on the quality of your doughnuts, but your reign of terror continues.

Yup, Still in Therapy

We haven’t really gotten to the heart of the matter that landed me in therapy, have we?  And the clock’s a-tickin’.  Very soon I’ll be back on farm property, at which point I’ll have to figure out a way to summon some semblance of composure. 

So, let’s see what else Dr. Typepad has up his sleeve:

Him: I had an idea that might help you work through some of your feelings for the Farmer that you haven’t felt like discussing so far.  Why don’t we try role-playing?

Me: (sigh) Fine.  But, only if I get to be the Farmer.

Him: Well, I was thinking I would be the Farmer and you would be yourself…

Me: (yawn)

Him: …but since you’re the patient, we’ll try it your way. 

Me: Okay.  How do we start?

Him: Let’s set the stage.  You should pick a location that makes you feel comfortable.

Me: Hmmmm...oh, I know.  There are these stairs in the horse barn that go way the hell up to somewhere.  I’ve always wondered what it’s like up there.

Him: Probably just a hayloft.  But all right, if that’s what you want.  So, since I’m you, why don’t I begin so you can feel empowered by the fact that you’re initiating the dialogue?

Me: Yeah, whatever’s going to make this go faster.

Him: Are you ready?  So, Farmer.  There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.  I’ve been experiencing feelings that go beyond the typical Farmer/CSA member relationship and I was hoping we could talk about them.  Now you.

Me: Okay, um…I’m glad you brought this up, Tammy, because ever since that day we met, when you were trying to unstake the tomatoes with an incompetence never before seen on a farm, I can’t get you out of my mind. 

Him: Okay, stop.  The idea here is that you try to be realistic about his response. 

Me: No, it’s true.  I totally sucked with those tomatoes. 

Him: As the farmer, you want to be receptive, but not too forthcoming.  Remember, this may not be an entirely welcome development.

Me: (sigh)

Him: Let’s try it again.  Here we go.  So, Farmer, given the standard Farmer/CSA member interaction as outlined by the Massachusetts Department of Agriculture, I’d rather address these feelings now to avoid any potential misunderstandings.

Me: Okay, this is stupid.  That’s not even how I talk. 

Him: Well, how would you say it, then?

Me: I don’t know.  Something like, you know, this probably isn’t what the Eat Local people had in mind when they talk about forging new relationships with local growers.  But none of the Locavore literature warned me about this.  And Drumlin’s web site certainly didn’t offer up any clues.  I’m used to just going to the store and all the vegetables are laid out all shiny and pretty, like storks dropped them out of the sky or something.  It’s kind of a sterile arrangement, I guess, so I wasn’t prepared for the close and sudden bond you feel with the kind stranger who feeds you.  How intimate the relationship between cook and farmer would be.  Not intimate that way, necessarily, but you know, I mean, the way he pulls stuff out of the ground with his bare hands?  No, scratch that part.  But, you see how much work goes into it, how much care, and everything tastes sooooo good.  …Um, you’re standing kind of close, don’t you think?

Him: Kiss me.

Me: What??  I’m not supposed to be kissing the Farmer, remember?

Him: Special circumstances. 

What is up with my therapist, can somebody please tell me? 

So, whatever, I kissed him.  Was that wrong?

Who Wants to Be a Moron? (Major Appliance Edition)

Well, I’m surprised it took me this long to get to our second installment of Who Wants to be a Moron?, but here we are at last.  As always, the object of the game is for you to make me feel better by providing SPECIFIC scenarios in which you were stupider than I was.

First, let me just say that there’s been a lot of vomit in our house lately.  Just the Toddler’s, but what he lacks in size he makes up for in volume and frequency.  As a result, nobody’s been getting much sleep around here, and the laundry and dishes have been piling up.  Not a good time for a major appliance to break. 

The trouble started with a jeweled goblet (doesn’t it always?).  We got one for each kid at a medieval-themed birthday party over the weekend.  The Preschooler became so enamored with his goblet that he has since requested that all of his beverages be supplied in a vessel encrusted with rhinestones.  Luckily, our entire house is constructed of rhinestones, so this is not a problem.

For some reason that even I can’t understand, it ended up in the dishwasher.  By my own hand.  (The left is blaming the right, and the right is blaming the left, but I know my precious left hand would never do such a thing.)

Does this look dishwasher-safe to you?

How about now?

The gems have mysteriously disappeared, which may explain the horrible grinding sound emanating from the dishwasher motor.  It's worse than fingernails against a chalkboard.  I’m sure the trolls that live deep within the manifold (kin to the sock-stealing trolls that inhabit the dryer) are dancing a gleeful jig right now, proclaiming, “We’re rich!  We’re rich!  We’ll never work again!” 

In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to break the news to Husband.  Maybe I’ll just wait until he reads it on my blog!

So, spill it, people.  Has anyone ever destroyed a major appliance in a more idiotic fashion?  Please spare me no details.  I need something to carry me through all of the dishwashing that lies ahead of me.  In keeping with the bacon prize theme, I have some lovely bacon band-aids for the person who has the best story.  Ah, the healing power of pork products…

Misunderstanding Michael Pollan: The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Chapter 4

We’re finally to a topic near and dear to my heart.  Meat.  Unfortunately, Michael Pollan didn’t have anything good to say about it.  At least not in this chapter.  In fact, he basically did the equivalent of taking a perfectly good rib eye steak, stomping on it, dragging it through the mud/feces, then really grinding it in there with the sole of his shoe.  I don’t mean to shoot the messenger, but thanks a lot, Michael Pollan.

I guess it’s not really new news that cows in industrial feedlots don’t have good lives.  Though they spend their early months out in the country, they’re then brought to special fattening factories designed to bring you meat as cheaply as possible, by whatever means possible.  Pollan writes:

“America’s food animals have undergone a revolution in lifestyle in the years since World War II.  At the same time as much of America’s human population found itself leaving the city for the suburbs, our food animals found themselves traveling in the opposite direction, leaving widely dispersed farms in places like Iowa to live in densely populated new animal cities.  These places are so different from farms and ranches that a new term was needed to denote them: CAFO—Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation.”

In other words, ghetto.  Pollan goes on to describe the living conditions of these animals, which include, but are not limited to, filth, squalor, a highly caloric yet malnourishing diet, and drugs.  Sounds vaguely familiar.  Force-feeding the cows corn, which their bodies are not designed to eat, means they are riddled with health problems.  Compound that with crappy medical insurance, low test scores, and high unemployment, and you're not looking at an optimistic group.  And although the teen pregnancy situation seems to be under control, you can pretty much count on all the young, bright ones being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We haven’t done a great job dealing with this plight for human populations, so I doubt the cows stand much of a chance.  However, since I know that I personally have contributed to this situation by eating large quantities of disgusting-yet- somehow-still-delicious CAFO beef, I’d like to be a part of the solution.  Growing up in suburban Boston as I did, my suggestion is this. 

Busing.

If cheap corn is the problem, and I think Pollan is saying that it is—that we can’t afford NOT to feed every living creature government-subsidized corn—we need to find not just a source of cheap grass to compete, but free grass.  And I know just the place.  The suburbs. 

We’ll just bus the cows from their midwestern slums right into the posh coastal suburbs.  We can use the old Boston school buses with the tinted windows you still see every once in a while so the Kow Klux Klan doesn’t hurl corn cobs at them as they drive by.  Then we’ll set the cows loose on all those juicy green lawns.  Maybe not so much where I live, but over there on the right side of the tracks.  They’ll munch away, then move on to the other side of the fence where the grass really is greener. 

You homeowners with the good school systems might object at first, but think of all the money you’ll save on landscaping fees.  Plus, the system is self-fertilizing, and with the absence of lawnmowers, the only thing to offend your ears will be the occasional bout of cow flatulence.  A small price to pay for a better world, I think.

A Letter to Shaw's

Dear Fellow Grocery Shoppers,

Sorry for the horrific scene at the supermarket today.  I don’t usually lose my temper like that in public, but one’s own offspring are experts in staking out the boundaries between sanity and what lies beyond it so that they may be the first to map out this uncharted territory.  And then use it for extortion later on in life.

I know your Very Important Buying Decisions aren’t made any easier by the sounds of two wailing children.  Believe me, it’s louder where I’m standing.  (Except for the old lady with the hearing aid turned up to maximum.  I know you didn’t see that one coming.)  But the lesson they have to learn is that the rules aren’t going to change no matter how much they scream.  Or at least that’s the lesson the Toddler needs to learn.

I don’t like scenes.  I go to great lengths to avoid scenes.  It’s possible that the Toddler has figured this out.  But if the choice boils down to teaching a valuable lesson that makes some noise or giving in on an important point just to keep everyone happy, well, sometimes the unpleasant thing is the responsible choice.  They can learn the lesson from me now, or from someone else much later.  Someone who doesn’t love them nearly as much as I do. 

And did you notice that we got through checkout with nary a peep?  That’s right.  I expect our next shopping trip will go much more smoothly. 

Enjoy your Ho Hos.  Good day.

Tammy

Awesome, Quoted in the Boston Globe!

Have a look.

Wow, that was harsh.  Too bad I never wrote or said any such thing.  Nor was I ever contacted about it.  Plus, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t say something like that about a community Web site. 

I guess the Globe uses the same standards for ethics and accuracy that I use on my blog!

On Race and Cookies

The Preschooler is such an earnest little guy, yet he still manages to freak me out sometimes.  Grab some popcorn and let’s watch:

Him: What are those things called? 

Me: What things?

Him: They’re people.

Me: Uh-huh.

Him: They look just like us, but they’re brown.

Me: …Uh… (oh, god)

Him: Sometimes they sing.  Like in Shrek.

Me: …Urgh… (we’re not in public, are we?)

Him: And you cook them and eat them?

Me: … (oh, shit, what have I been teaching this child?)

Him: Wait, I know.  Gingerbread men!

Me: Oh, thank god.

Him: Can we make some?

Me: Yes!  RIGHT NOW.  I don’t care if it’s March.

Turns out the only racist in this family is me.

Percy and the Giant: A Cautionary Tale

Here’s a heart-warming fable I told my kids before bed a few nights ago:

There once was a farmer far, far away, in a magical land called Canada.  Let’s call him Percy, like from Thomas the Tank Engine.  Percy was a good farmer.  None too fancy.  He just liked to grow beans.

Nearby lived another farmer, we’ll call him Gordon.  Gordon, much like the big blue express engine, thought he was very important because, not only was he faster than the other engines/farmers, he also had magic beans.  You could pour Special Poison on top of these beans over and over, and they would never die.  The bugs would die, and all the other plants around them would die, maybe even some animals would die, but the beanstalks from these magic beans would grow and grow until they reached the clouds.

Percy’s plants weren’t very tall, but he didn’t care.  They put out lots of beans.  And he was happy.

One day, the winds were blustery.  The bees at Gordon’s farm were busy carrying sticky pollen from one magic bean plant to another.  Some of the bees got blown over to Percy’s farm and they brought their magic pollen with them. 

Soon, some of the plants in Percy’s fields were growing very tall.  Percy scratched his head.  He didn’t understand where these tall plants had come from.  Since he liked his own plants, from seeds he had carefully saved, he started pulling out the big plants, one by one.  It was hard work.  Still, before he knew it, most of his field was filled with soaring beanstalks. 

Gordon was watching.  Always watching.  He banged on Percy’s door one morning, but there was no answer.  Percy was busy in his fields planting new seeds that would grow only short plants.  When Gordon finally found Percy, he starting calling him names, claiming Percy had stolen Gordon’s big, beautiful bean plants.  Percy was shocked.  He hadn’t stolen anything.  He didn’t even want Gordon’s dumb old plants.  Or any of his Special Poison, either.  Then, Gordon handed him a bill for 5 bazillion dollars. 

That was the last straw.  Percy searched for Sir Topham Hatt who was known far and wide as an autocratic but benevolent dictator.  Gordon informed Percy that Sir Topham Hatt had been crushed in a “tragic boulder accident,” and the only one who could decide who was right was the giant at the top of the beanstalks.

So, they climbed up and up and up.  The giant didn’t tell Percy his name, but he was wearing a shirt that said OTNASNOM, so that’s what Percy called him.  He pleaded his case.  Gordon winked.  Finally, the giant handed down his decision.

“Percy, I can see that you’re a good and decent man,” he roared, “but I can’t let that stand in the way of progress.  Everybody wants magic beans.  Everybody.  They’re magical, you see.  You do believe in magic, don’t you, Percy?  Now, hand over your retirement savings and be quick about it.”

And the giant lived happily ever after.

THE END

Sheesh, no wonder the Toddler didn’t fall asleep until 2:30 am.

Last week, U.S. farmers and consumer advocates filed suit in federal court to challenge the deregulation of genetically modified sugar beets by the USDA.  These beets, designed to be resistant to Monsanto’s patented pesticide, Roundup, will surely cross-contaminate conventional crops and potentially destroy the livelihood of organic and conventional beet farmers in Oregon’s Willamette Valley (and who knows where else).  Just like “Roundup Ready” canola did for farmers in Saskatchewan.

It would be nice if the farmers could win an important lawsuit for a change.

In Which I Mistake My Son’s Birthday Party for a Bender

   

If you think I made this cake, than you’re drunker than I ended up being at the Preschooler’s 5th birthday party. 

Nope, this R2-D2 cake was all Husband’s doing.  In fact, he was responsible for planning the entire Star Wars-themed event.  I am in no way robot-oriented, and I think I’ve mentioned before how I feel about making homemade birthday cakes.  All I did was line the pans with parchment paper to increase his odds of success.  Came out pretty good, huh?

But, back to my misbehavior. 

First, let me start out by saying that I’m not a huge drinker.  I may talk a big game because I love my tequila, among other things, but I’m not generally indulging in large quantities of the stuff.  This is mostly because I’ve found that if Life sees you too happy, Life will spend the next week and a half getting you back.

This morning, the sky dumped a whole bunch more snow on top of us and threatened to break a small boy’s heart.  Global warming, you are a fickle friend, indeed.  If not for some neighbors with a sled and a few die-hard friends who were willing to risk their lives on the roads for a little cake and ice cream, it would have been quite a different sort of day.

Husband was busy frosting the cake in the hour before the party, so I went outside to shovel a path to our house, starting with our 4 million stairs.  At some point during this process, the snow changed to sleet, so I got to the bottom just in time to start from the top again with the heavy stuff.  Then, I frantically shoveled out what I thought would be parking spots for two cars.  Nope, just one and a half cars.  That rounds down to one car, in case you were wondering.  So, our friend Ed and I tried shoveling out a different snow bank for another half a car (rounding down to zero cars) and on and on.

I don’t usually start drinking at 11:30 in the morning, but, you know, it just seemed like a good time.  Turns out bourbon goes down smoother than expected when you’ve had nary a cool, refreshing drink of water after your exertions.  Here are the bits and pieces I remember from the party:

• The kids beating the crap out of each other with inflatable light sabers.  And me laughing.

• The kids enjoying their pizza with Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing playing noticeably in the background (the kids didn’t bat an eye; meanwhile, all the adults were giggling like sixth graders).

• As the cake was finally unveiled, me screaming at Husband, “Stop trying to show me up on my own blog,” and storming out in a jealous rage.  (Did that even happen?  Maybe I just dreamt that when I was passed out after the party.)

Anyway, it all kind of reminded me of that 30 Rock party scene (the one where Tina Fey’s character vomits on somebody and immediately stuffs another cupcake into her mouth).  Except that I was the only one who was drunk, and most of the other guests were under 5. 

I don’t know what the Preschooler thought about how this party compared to the others in his short life, but as far as I’m concerned, it was the best one EVER.

Anyone for Games?

We’re going to play a new game today.  It’s called Who Wants to Be a Moron?  Specifically, more of a moron than me. 

The rules go like this: I present a scenario in which I’m a moron.  HUGE moron.  And you, dear readers, come up with situations in which you were an even bigger moron.  The bigger, the better.  I don’t really care how this happens.  Lying totally works. 

The object of the game is to make me feel better, to make you feel worse, and for me to be able to call you all morons behind your backs.  Character doesn’t build itself, people. 

Today, we’re focusing on one particular act of supreme stupidity.  The time, not two hours ago, when I stood up our good friends for dinner.  Stood them up at our own house.  To which they brought a lovingly prepared appetizer.  As well as their two hungry children.

Awesome.

I have a legitimately good reason for not being there to greet them.  Namely, that I’m dumb.  My calendar also shape-shifts at will.  In fact, it’s not so much a calendar as a Sudoku puzzle that I, not being much of a numbers person, insist on filling in with letters as if it were a crossword puzzle, so that even the shrewdest of Navajo Code Talkers can’t make any sense out of it.  Add to that the fact that I never know what day it is (note to self: check your own blog).  Then there’s all the hard drugs.  But all good reasons aside, there was still no one home when they arrived. 

So, back to the game.  Anyone screwed their friends worse than this?  Do tell.  And did they forgive you?  And how much did it cost?

As for prizes, well, the award of choice on the blogosphere seems to be a bacon wallet.  As AWESOME as this prize is, I don’t have any to give away.  When I woke up this morning, procuring game show prizes wasn’t tops on my list of things to do as I was too busy readying myself to be an asshole. 

Based on the evidence you provide in my comment section, if you’re declared The Biggest Moron Of All Time and you feel you deserve, at the very least, a bacon wallet for your trouble, I suggest you take some bacon and wrap it around your existing wallet.  You’ll thank me in approximately 36 hours, if not sooner.

Who Wants to Be a Moron? will, I’m sure, become a recurring feature, so you might not want to unload all of your stupidity at once.  If you do, I’ll feel great today, but just plain suicidal down the road when my comment section is painfully empty and I’m wrapping bacon around my own wallet.  So, pace yourselves. 

On your mark, get set, GO.

Scoop

I have a sneaking suspicion that a food blog isn’t the appropriate place to air my litter box grievances.  But until my new litter box blog, The Latest Scoop, is up and running, food blog it is.

My god.  The horrors I have seen.

I just left the back door open.  If you waited too long to place your order for a Thanksgiving heirloom turkey, I can cut you a deal on two free-range, grass-finished felines.

Did Brickman’s Screw You Over, Too?

Chances are, if you arrived here because of a Google search, it’s because Brickman’s, a retailer of quality hardware and fixtures, ran off with your money.  You may have tried to call them only to find their number disconnected.  You might have checked their Web site to see, oh good, it’s still up.  But, well, now it’s down.  You might even have dropped by their Moody Street, Waltham location only to find their space completely cleared out, with colorful posters announcing the imminent grand opening of an Indian Shopping Mall. 

While this may spell excitement for the Indians, my reaction was slightly less exuberant.  You see, I had ordered one freelance paycheck’s worth of kitchen cabinet knobs and pulls from Brickman’s because my kitchen, where I spend a fair amount of time, has a serious case of the uglies. 

Lovely.  And that’s when they’re clean.  I always say my hideous cabinets are part of my kitchen’s charm, but I am a liar. Husband and I agreed that the most cost-effective thing to do, besides allowing them to remain ugly for another six years, would be to paint the cabinets and just buy new hardware.  Enter Brickman’s, since 1946 (though, apparently, not nearly long enough).

The folks at Brickman’s, after commenting on how I look about 17 years old and aren’t I a little young to care about kitchen remodeling, had told me that it would take a few months for my order to come in.  That seemed reasonable.  But, little did I know that this was also the time frame during which they were planning to jump into their getaway U-Haul truck, buckling under the weight of six tons of mismatched showroom pieces, and speed away at approximately 15 mph.  It’s odd because, in their haste, they remembered to charge my credit card.  The credit card of a child.  They must have made a terrible mistake.

If you’ve found yourself in a similar situation and are trying to contact Brickman’s, let me save you an hour and a half.  The Better Business Bureau’s number (508-652-4800) isn’t working (somebody call the Better Business Bureau!).  The Waltham city clerk (781-314-3120) has nothing on record for Brickman’s (although she’s gotten several calls).  The MA State Citizen’s Info line (800-392-6090) comes up empty, too.  The Bankruptcy Court Clerk (617-565-8950) says they didn’t file for bankruptcy (if they’re not bankrupt, surely they can afford to pay me back, no?).  The Attorney General’s office (617-727-8400) will refer you to the local consumer office (508-651-8812), which will tell you to visit their Web site (http://www.consumermetrowest.org/), where you can download a complaint form.  Which you should do.  The bastards.

I have no illusions about getting my money back.  It’s almost as if they’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.  But, somebody, somewhere, has my cabinet pulls.  And nobody is opening any cabinets until I find out who.  Everyone is a suspect.  Especially you with attractive kitchens.  Anonymous tips are welcome.

Um...

...whoever just Googled "cannibal roasting pan," you're really freaking me out.

Red is for Lead

Today, I was informed, by someone who follows the news, that several Thomas the Tank Engine toys have been recalled by RC2 Corporation.  Apparently, many of the toys (mostly red- and yellow-painted, wooden trains) contain lead paint.  Lead paint is toxic if ingested.  The recalled trains date back to January 2005. 

I’m extremely confident that, over the past two years, my not-quite-two-year-old has never, ever put his beloved James, James’ Tender, or the ever-popular caboose into his mouth.  Not to teethe, not to taste, not even just for the hell of it.  Children have an instinctual aversion against putting anything shiny and red into their mouths.  Nothing red is ever delicious. 

Nevertheless, I felt compelled to follow the recommendation to “take the recalled toys away from young children immediately.”  In retrospect, maybe ripping the tainted trains out of their eager hands wasn’t the best way to deliver the news.  Especially, since our 1920s home in industrial Massachusetts was probably built on a foundation composed of 100% lead.  And asbestos.  So, what’s another goddamned day after two years.

I really can’t wait to see what else China has in store for us.

My Counter-Petition to the FDA

As promised, a REAL citizen’s petition.  Don’t worry, it’s short by FDA standards, so maybe they won’t fall asleep reading it like I did with the original one drafted by the Grocery Manufacturer’s Association (GMA).  Feel free to sign it, add your own provisions, or just stamp it with your own butt cheeks.

Citizen Petition

To the FDA

To Uphold Standards for Food

(Good Standards)

(Not Shitty Standards)

On behalf of the other citizens of this country (i.e., those that have no professional or financial ties to the food manufacturing industry), I am submitting this petition to the Food and Drug Administration (FDA).

ACTION REQUESTED

Leave the chocolate alone.  It’s bad enough that half the cheese being sold as cheese in this country contains no actual cheese.  If the same thing happens to chocolate, I might as well run myself over with my own car.  As soon as I figure out how to do that.

Other things to leave alone include, but are not limited to: whole milk, all remaining actual cheese, yogurt, sour cream, Hood ice cream sandwiches (white paper wrapper and all), Gorton’s fish tenders (because I love them), Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (ditto), Grape-Nuts (shut up, they’re awesome with whole milk), Goldfish (or my kids will kill you), Cinnamon Life (or my husband will kill you), Fig Newtons (or my husband will kill you in a slow and painful fashion).

Also, you might want to consider giving our livestock a bit more wiggle room, maybe even reduce their poison intake.  Perhaps offer sharper and more sanitary blades over which to drag the still-conscious poultry.  Things like that.  As far as the standards for food in the public schools are concerned, I’ve drafted a separate 64-page citizen’s petition for that.  Keep an eye out.

STATEMENT OF GROUNDS

Real food is delicious.  Fake food is not.

Real food is nutritious.  Fake food is not.

Duh.

BACKGROUND

The human race has been able to sustain itself for hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years by eating wholesome food.  Fake food has no such track record.

ECONOMIC IMPACT

Admittedly, using real ingredients in food instead of the myriad cheap substitutes the GMA proposes may cost more in the short term.  Using healthy ingredients is, apparently, more expensive than fabricating fake ones.  Also, we may find ourselves eating less real food by volume because we’re just so darned satisfied.  But think of all the money that insurance companies will save by serving a healthy populace.  This is really going to help my argument, I can just feel it.

FOREGROUND

There’s been talk by the FDA and the GMA of both vertical and horizontal approaches to modernizing the country’s food standards.  Blah, blah, blah...I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.  Plus, I don’t trust either of you.  Therefore, I’m proposing a diagonal approach, whereby I draw a line from a small farm directly to my house, bypassing all of you people, so that I may have a prayer of understanding what the hell is on my plate. 

Also, the GMA’s argument that consumers won’t know the difference between the real ingredients and their cheap substitutes is more than a little insulting.  Even though I am marginally retarded, I have quite the clever palate.  And even if I didn’t, how dare you take advantage of retarded people.

Just give me the food, man.  No substitutes.

Anyway, I certify that, to the best of my knowledge, this petition represents my own stream of consciousness, and that, although it doesn’t include the opposing viewpoint, neither did the original petition.  And reading that crap was punishment enough.

Respectfully submitted,

Tammy Donroe
Average Citizen

Folks, It Ain’t Just Chocolate

Boy, was I doing some riveting reading over the weekend.  I’m so glad I chose to spend my kids’ entire nap time tucking into FDA Docket Number 2007P-0085: Adopt Regulations of General Applicability to all Food Standards that would Permit, within Stated Boundaries, Deviations from the Requirements of the Individual Food Standards of Identity.  Yeah, that was a good use of two hours.

This document has gotten a lot of press lately for the effect it might have on how we manufacture chocolate in this country.  Because, let’s face facts, chocolate is the single most important food group.  On any given day of my life, it might be the only one. 

This citizen’s petition, drawn up by the good “citizens” that comprise the Chocolate Manufacturer’s Association (CMA) and the Grocery Manufacturer’s Association (GMA), among a long list of other industry groups, hopes the FDA will relax its standards for how it defines certain foods while still keeping the same name. 

Each type of chocolate has its own definition, but the current requirements for milk chocolate are: at least 10% chocolate liquor, at least 12% milk ingredients, cocoa butter, and sugar.  If this petition were accepted, chocolate and all foods with strict definitions could be subject to “suitable substitutions.”  And we all know what that means: cheaper ingredients.  And who determines what’s suitable?  Perhaps, the same good folks who brought us Olestra. 

Lowering standards would translate into hydrogenated vegetable oils being substituted for cocoa butter.  For sweeteners, the sky would be the limit, but I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark at corn syrup.  And the chocolate liquor could be replaced with, oh, I don’t know, something else brown.  Sign me up for CMA’s Chocolate-of-the-Month Club.

But even more disturbing than the chocolate side of it (and that freaks me out more than you can possibly know) is the fact that all packaged foods would be at risk.  Even things like cheese.  It’s everything that is represented by the following groups and their subsidiaries: the American Frozen Food Institute, the American Meat Institute, the International Dairy Foods Association, the Food Products Association, the Juice Products Association, the National Fisheries Institute, the National Meat Canners Association, the North American Millers’ Association, and the Snack Food Association.  In other words, almost everything in the supermarket.

There might be some legitimate points in this petition somewhere, but I couldn’t really find them through all the intentional vagueness.  In essence, the whole thing read like this:

Hey, you.  FDA.  We know you’re too busy with clinical trials of the various erection medications flooding the market.  Do you really want to spend your time worrying about dumb old food standards?  Are you sure you want us to bother you with every single stupid labeling or ingredient change we want to make?  You don’t, do you?  Okay then.  Don’t worry, we’ll take care of EVERYTHING.

Thanks, GMA.  You’re a peach.  So, I guess that means I’ll have more anal leakage to look forward to.

The FDA has extended its comment period through June 25.  In the meantime, I’m thinking of drawing up a citizen’s petition of my own.

A New Low for Thermometers

As I was perusing the archives of the Devil’s Food Dictionary, my favorite primary source for fact-checking the lies on my web site, I was reminded of author Barry Foy’s definition of tuna.  Here’s an excerpt: “Excellent raw, cooked in any way, or canned, this sleek, majestic, powerful animal is so delicious that we have decided not to waste any of it on future generations.”

That’s pretty funny, I thought.  Which reminded me that I was hungry.  And that I could really go for some sea bass.  But, I wasn’t sure what the status of current fish stocks are.  Supplies of sea bass were dwindling some years back, but is it okay to eat them, again?  What about now? 

Now?

So, I had this idea to help people like me keep tabs on their favorite (i.e., most delicious) creatures.  A giant thermometer, like in fundraisers, where the mercury rises feverishly as supplies run low.  It seems counterintuitive, at first.  But, see, as stocks begin disappearing, demand naturally skyrockets.  And with the mercury soaring, you would then feel the overwhelming urge to rush to your nearest restaurant to get your final, forbidden taste of the food in question before it’s taken off menus for good.  And if you time it just right, you could be the one responsible for the final DING-DING-DING and subsequent explosion of confetti that accompanies the extinction announcement.

For example, according to my market research (i.e., the BBC’s spectacular Blue Planet series), there are amazing species of fish and fishlike eel things in the depths that no one’s even heard of, never mind tasted.  This would barely register at the bottom of the thermometer.  However, for something like cheetah burgers, the mercury would shoot up and hover just shy of joyful dinging, with statisticians at the ready to compile a McDonald’s-like tabulation of the total patties served.

Kind of like this:

Or would that be in poor taste?

Poetic Justice

We have a mouse.  Shudder.  Maybe more than one, but I’m sticking to the one-mouse theory until they prove otherwise. 

What is it about the act of breaking and entering that makes an otherwise darling little mouse seem so repulsive?  Maybe, it’s the reflection on my own dubious housekeeping practices that’s so hideous.  But things are going to get even uglier around here, that’s for sure, starting with a very heated Q&A: Was it the cookies?  The cheese?  The festering lunch boxes?  ANSWER ME!

Anyway, I just saw someone in a KFC/Taco Bell uniform with a video camera outside my kitchen window.  Bastards. 

If anyone needs me, I’ll be vomiting in the corner of the house furthest from the mouse sighting.

The Skinny on Obesity

I was listening to the BBC on my local NPR station a few weeks ago when I heard something that got me hopping mad.  This happens sometimes.  I usually end up writing an angry letter, but now that I have a blog, I can write a post AND an angry letter.

I really try not to wax philosophical about things I know nothing about.  But the problem is that I know nothing about a lot of things.  And the things I do know, I can usually see both sides of the argument, which is really annoying when you’re trying to be opinionated about something.

Anyway, they were discussing childhood obesity in Great Britain.  See, this isn’t even my country.  But, it could be.  It seems that the fat level of British children is reaching epidemic proportions (sounds vaguely familiar).  Several experts have suggested that parents of overweight kids are negligent, even abusive, and that the state should be allowed, if it feels like it, to remove the child from the parents’ care. 

Not to trivialize an important issue, but obesity has many contributing factors.  Of course, there’s the state of our current diet and lifestyle.  The fact that it’s easier to Supersize fries than braise kale (or, when McDonald’s takes the Supersizes off the menu, ordering two large fries because there’s no law against it).  Sometimes, there’s a genetic component.  But then, there’s also that teeny tiny issue of self-esteem.  And I can think of nothing so morale-boosting as being ripped from the arms of your loving parents.  Or even your non-loving parents.  Mmmmm, it’s making me hungry just thinking about it.

I didn’t have this kind of weight problem growing up.  Mine was more an issue of chronic skinniness.  It didn’t matter how much I ate, I could never get ahead of the curve.  Just kept growing.  Upwards (though, I eventually topped out at a disappointing 5’3”).  This was during the Amazing Processed Foods Revolution of the 1970’s, so it should have been easy to gain weight.  The government got suspicious. 

The state tried to intervene in my upbringing, telling my mom to get with the program by adding more fatty foods to my diet, maybe cut down on so much outdoor play.  But she shunned expert advice and kept providing healthy snacks, enforcing vigorous Hula Hooping, and would even chase the ice cream man down the street with a garden hoe.  What a wacko!  Some days, I dreamed that Social Services would show up at my door just so I could have a candy bar.  I was never so lucky.

When it comes to weight-related custody battles, while my inner 10-year-old thinks that a big brouhaha with police, restraining orders, and maybe even a spot on the local news would be totally awesome, the parent in me thinks the rehabilitation is worse than the crime.  Maybe, there's another way.

(Incidentally, my favorite part of the story was when one of the experts being interviewed called the overweight 8-year-old in question a “freak.”  Does the word “freak” mean something different in British English, by any chance?)

Noble Rot

Okay, I have something to say and it’s not going to make me popular.  You see, everywhere I look — blogs, magazines, TV shows if I watched them — they all send the same message: Always use the freshest ingredients you can find.  And I think we’re taking this idea just a little bit too far. 

Yes, fresh ingredients are good.  Yes, they taste better.  But isn’t ALWAYS using them just a little extreme.  You can’t always have the epitomy of freshness.  Sooner or later, your greens are going to experience that not-so-fresh feeling and even the most absorbent Roca-Pads with wings aren’t going to be able to help.  So, are we just throwing these wilty greens away?  Nonsense.  (Actually, yes, my husband threw them away and I cursed him.)

So, from now on, let’s just amend ourselves to say: Use the freshest of ingredients only when it matters.  Like if you have one opportunity, and only one, to impress someone (like your insufferable mother-in-law!!!).  Or, if it’s your last supper.  Or if it’s summertime and fresh produce keeps dropping from the sky and hitting you in the face.  This is okay.  But for your average winter weekday meal for your dumb family?  I don’t think so.

Take last week.  I wasn’t going to say anything, but that rice pudding in the photo was made with expired cream.  That’s right: expired AND previously opened.  It smelled…a little funky.  But I suspected it was just the congealed stuff on the inside of the carton, and, lo and behold, once I poured it through a strainer to get rid of the lumps, it tasted totally fine.  (Kind of like when you’re making a crème anglaise and you cook it until just a few curdles form, you strain them out, and it’s totally way better than when those curdles were just a glimmer in your eye.  Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

Now, some of you might find yourself jumping to conclusions about the vomiting that wracked our household around the same time as the rice pudding consumption.  You can’t prove anything.  It was a virus, and do you know how I know?  Because I do this kind of thing all the time.  And rarely, if ever, do I vomit from my own cooking.  I only vomit in swanky, high-end restaurants where they use the freshest of ingredients.

So, the moral of this story is: stop being such a bunch of food snobs, you food snobs.  And, additionally, I’m now off the hook for having to cook for any of my friends or family ever again!