"You'll sip. You'll chew." You'll... what?

I like free things. Whether it's a platter of sample mini-cheesecakes on the counter of the nearby grocery's Bakery section, or a cardboard box on the curb filled with paperbacks and old utensils, or a dog that just happens to follow you home (even though you did pick it up through that one suspect neighborhood--I'm looking at you, KZ), free things are the one vestige of socialism to squeak through this very Capitalistic system, and I, for one, am happy they exist. That being said, not every thing given, or taken, for free is worth it.

"But what do you mean, 'worth it'? Isn't that the whole point of free stuff? You pay nothing, so whatever you get is a bonus! Frosting on the cake, so to speak."

I appreciate the food-metaphor, disembodied quote, but I beg to differ. Did you pay for your Syphillis?

"Erm.... good point."

That's right. Not everything given for free is desired. Which brings me to the topic of this meandering post.... Fruit 2Day.

Fruit 2Day is a new product by a company calling themselves Hero. An unassuming lady was giving away samples on the street, a small cardboard container holding two 6.75 ounce bottles. I nabbed one as I passed. Who wouldn't? They were free. They looked tasty, even. The cardboard packaging promised "Real Fruit bits. Juicy Bliss." This phrase was trademarked, by the way, so all prospective burlesque dancers itching to go by the stage name Juicy Bliss, be forewarned. The top of the package promised yet more: "A juicy snack with real fruit bits. Imagine." This, too, was trademarked. Okay, by now I know this thing better have fruit bits in it, they better be real, and it all better be pretty freaking juicy.

When I arrive home, I release one of the bottles from its cardboard noose. On the back, there's something of an instruction: "Snack on real fruit bits in a splash of natural juice." And then, an ominous addendum: "You'll see."
First of all--I'm frightened at this point. Is that a threat? A warning? Are these samples like give-away bottles of some illicit fruit-flavored pleasure drug, destined to suck all curious pedestrians into a hopeless state of addiction to their juicy, fruity bits?
And second of all--How many slogans can one product have?
Below the UPC code, another one: "So many fruits. So good." Okay! I get it. You like to spin pithy remarks about fruit. The good news: 'So many fruits / So good' has not yet been trademarked. Use and abuse, fair readers.

I begin to open the bottle, but hesitate. The package promises a deluge of fruit chunk projectiles, as if popping the top was akin to saying, "Ready.... aim..... " I do not wish to be punished by a rush of airborne cherry halves.

But I open, lift off the aluminum foil seal, peer inside. Looks like juice. I sip. And then, by god... I chew.

Real fruit bits! They weren't joking. And by that I mean: None of this is funny whatsoever. Picture it. You open the bottle. You lift it to your mouth. You allow the sudden rush of what they are calling "Cherry Grape" flavored liquid to pass through your lips. And it tastes like Cherries, and Grapes, and this is all fine and good. But then: Little pieces of something flow in with the juice. You drink and swallow but also bite down. You are grinding what should be liquid into a mash with your molars. In my Books of Rules, anything coming out of a bottle should have no need for mastication. And yet, with Fruit2Day, oh yes, you will masticate.

So I go to the Ingredients list. What, exactly, am I chewing on? The picture shows chunks of cherries and grapes, along with that sploosh of red-colored juice. The name of this specific flavor is "Cherry Grape." With this in mind, I begin reading off the list of ingredients:

"Apple juice from concentrate and puree...
Banana puree
Pear pieces..."

It is at this point that I say: What the 'eff are you playing at, Hero? But I go on.

"...Red grape juice from concentrate
Cherry puree
Acerola cherry juice from concentrate
Natural flavor."

So we have cherries, and we have grapes. But the only pieces of anything in that bottle, adorned so brightly with luscious red cherries and deep purple bunches of grapes, are tiny little soaked bits of pear. By the time they reach your mouth, hey, they feel and taste like 'cherry grape,' alright. Today's 'Natural Flavor' technology has come a long way, baby. But it's the misdirection that irks me. This is not the first or worst case of Blatant Food Packaging Lies, of course, only the most recent. So go and grab that free sample of Fruit2Day, if you must. Truth be told, it's pretty yummy, if you can get by the texture that feels something like eating your own bottled vomit.

Good luck to you, Hero. May all your fruit chunk dreams come true.

It's Alive!!... and high in antioxidants

The debate between vegetarians and those that choose to enjoy life's varied pleasures is one I remain neutral on. Both sides have their strong points: a juicy burger smothered in cheese, topped with a fried egg, and set between a toasted bun is one of the purest joys of summertime backyard gastronomy; meanwhile, green beans are not, as previously hypothesized, poisoned food-darts. So I understand how each community feels loyal to their cause. But I've just come across a new product at the local supermarket which might just put a dent into Anti-Meat arguments across the globe...

Many friends have told me, "I can't eat something if I know it was alive." They are referring, one assumes, to steak (cows) or bacon (pigs) or buffalo wings (chicken) or hot dogs (D: All of the Above) or Taco Bell (E: origin remains unclear). Several well-known authors have opined on the subject. David Foster Wallace, in the title essay of his 2005 collection Consider the Lobster, asks the rational question, "Is it all right to boil a sentient creature alive just for our gustatory pleasure?" while reporting on the Maine Lobster Festival. (Answer: It's complicated.) The good news is that the high-pitched whine coming from the emerged crustacean is not a shrill death cry, as popular myth asserts; lobsters talk through an exchange of urine suffused with pheromones, not any sort of vocal box, which is both comforting and unsettling, while also giving one possible explanation for why my roommate always pees with the door open. The bad news is that lobster is way overrated, tasting like molded erasure rubbings dunked in butter. But Legal Seafood's Lobster Bisque is delicious. As you can see, the debate is a fierce and complex affair.

In an article for Real Simple, author Jonathan Safran Foer gives his thoughts on his on-again/off-again vegetarianism: "[I]f a fish, a chicken, or a cow has a consciousness that in any way resembles George's [his dog]...to so much as harm it, much less kill it for food, would be the ultimate act of barbarism." And yet he eats fish on days he craves something other than soybeans, and he cooks lampchops for George. Again, there seems to be no definitive answer other than this: Meat tastes good.

Perhaps French philosophy can aid our quest for understanding? Roland Barthes, in his piece "Steak and Chips" from the collection Mythologies, muses on the titular beef: "One can well imagine the ambrosia of the Ancients as this kind of heavy substance which dwindles under one's teeth in such a way as to make one keenly aware at the same time of its original strength and of its aptitude to flow into the very blood of man." Roland. You're not helping.

So when I discovered this particular item in the supermarket aisle, I thought: Here is evidence to combat those who would paint my burger-holding hands red. Next to bags of iceberg and coleslaw, I found a collection of strange, plastic-encased bunches of lettuce. I drew nearer. The label proclaimed: LIVING Lettuce. I picked up one of the orbs, looking very much like a 50's-style astronaut helmet, or the protagonist's in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Underneath the crisp leaves was a close bundle of roots, still attached to the leafy greens. The back of the package explains: "Tanimura & Antle Living Lettuce is hydroponically grown using regenerative farming practices helping to protect & sustain our environment."
Which sounds great, but merely obfuscates the truth. They package and sell lettuce... that is alive! Instructions on the inside label even suggest prolonging the poor vegetable's suffering: "Use only what you need for each serving, keeping the roots intact." Suddenly it all comes clear. Vegetarians have reacted so strongly against our carnivorous ways not out of animal pity, but out of fearful self-delusion. For every 1/15th of a cow we burger-eaters have killed, our herbivorous brethren have murdered entire villages of corn just for a Southwestern Salad.

As I ponder this new reality, waves of revelation sweep over me: Why are they called heads of lettuce? What exactly is the origin behind Artichoke hearts? Sweet merciful gravy. All this time I've felt bad about those factories filled with cage-enclosed hens pumping out my omelettes. Now, I've stumbled upon what might be a 21st century Shroud of Turin. Finally, evidence of vegetable's capacity for feeling. Here is Lettuce and it is Living. And so brazenly marketed as such, right on the package! Then I noticed the price tag: A very reasonable $2.89. Suffice to say, my ladyfriend companion and I enjoyed this lettuce's last days alongside a nice tomato-and-mozzarella stuffed gnocchi and thick-sliced garlic bread.

Poor Man's Paella

The trusty Food Lover's Companion defines paella as, "A Spanish dish of saffron-flavored rice combined with a variety of meats and shellfish (such as shrimp, lobster, clams, chicken, pork, ham and chorizo), garlic, onions, peas, artichoke hearts, and tomatoes." Truly, a robust and flavorful meal.

But what if you don't have all that stuff? What if, like me, you are poor? And yet, if you're anything like me (who are you, anyway? And why are we so damned similar? You worry me with your imitative ways. First it's the facial hair. Then it's the t-shirt. Before I know it you'll be sleeping with my ladyfriend companion under this guise, and, as Chris Elliot's character in Groundhog Day once said, "Nobody touches the horn but me, pal, okay?" ) then you'll love food too much to deny yourself its simple pleasures. So. I give you an alternative version, suitable for our economic times.

Poor Man's Paella

1 cup leftover brown rice, Carolina brand
1 Tbs tap water
1/4 cup of powdery remnants from almost-empty bag of shredded mild cheddar cheese
A few spritzes Frank's Red Hot

-Take Glad container of rice out of fridge. Bring to room temperature.
-Add water to container. Stir lightly with finger.
-Heat container in microwave on HIGH for 45 seconds.
-Remember something bad someone told you once about microwaving plastic.
-Wonder if Gladware products are, in fact, plastic.
-Wonder if you should transfer rice to microwave-safe plate.
-Worry for the health and safety of your future children.
-Hear "ding."
-Remove container from microwave. Empty rice onto small plate.
-Pour cheese over rice. The residual heat will begin to melt the tiny cheddar bits, but not so much that they completely melt, creating a texture not unlike poorly-stirred Kraft Mac 'n Cheese.
-Run fork through mixture 6 or 7 times, enough to distribute cheese while leaving a few mounds of powder on top. This will make for a variety of flavor bursts throughout, both subtle and intense.
-Spritz mixture with Red Hot, to taste.

Enjoy while sitting on the floor, standing and flipping through last week's Sunday paper, or in front of your laptop while watching reruns of The Dana Carvey Show on Hulu since your TV hasn't worked since the all-digital upgrade began in February.

Tomato: Nature's Kidney

Tomatoes have many commendable traits: a pleasing red color, the flexibility of preparation (it's a sauce! it's a salsa! it's a salad! etc.), that darn Lycopene you keep hearing about, their aptness as projectile... the list goes on. Instead of telling you things you already know, we here at Edible Wrecks wish to broaden your horizons. Our goal is to show you the world of food from a new perspective. To inform you of the extraordinary, near-limitless potential of our most common crops and pre-packaged snacks. The tomato, you see, has a secret. Once the scientific world gets wind of this, we might have a firestorm of R&D on our hands, trying to harness this remarkable, and, until now, unheralded ability. Let's just hope it is used for the power of Good. Lord knows there are hundreds of grown-up pranksters--the little brother who stuck your finger in warm water overnight, the sword-fighting cousins, the Aunt with the lackadaisical bladder--who would use such knowledge for their nefarious schemes. So please, guard this information. Share it wisely. And know that tomatoes are not just a nutritious fruit (vegetable?) rich in antioxidants. They are, it seems, something else entirely......




Like kidneys, a tomato will, over time, collect and distribute a large quantity of urine.


"How do they do this?" you ask. "What sort of remarkable auto-urethra makes this possible in an organism with no known digestive system?" So far, it's a mystery. But the fact remains: A slice of tomato, given time to sit out on a kitchen table, will, as if by some reverse photosynthesis, produce and collect a sizable volume of what looks exactly like piss.

I give credit to my roommate for the discovery, and I thank him for allowing the speciman to remain, untouched, until the phenomenon was properly documented.

Look into the future! And imagine the possibilities...

To Steve Almond: A Rebuttal

About five or so years ago, Mr. Almond wrote a book called Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America. It was well-received, and the man became known as chief arbiter of taste for all things nougat-filled, caramel-injected, or sugar-coated. And with good reason: He begins the tome with the admission, both enviable and worrisome, that "[t]he author has eaten a piece of candy every single day of his entire life." Almond knows his material. And the story itself, part-memoir, part-literary journalism, is great fun: If you've ever desired intimate knowledge of someone else's oral cavity (and who hasn't?), you will find it here.

The narrative hinges on the author's investigation into the increasing amount of small candy factories being shut down by that other Big Three--Nestles, Hersheys, and Mars. The book is a tribute to these providers not only of flavor but of regional identity. Without their Twin Bing, older Idahoans will have lost a pathway to their youth, with nothing but the same five chocolate bars, from Seattle to South Beach, as available succor. Without the GooGoo Cluster, southerners would have to bond over something messier, like barbeque or a shared embarrassment over their glacial-thaw realization that slavery was a bad idea. Candy, Almond points out, is not merely for hyperactive children. It delivers solace. It brings companies billions. Whether personal or multi-corporational, it is a force, and as such deserves to be talked about.

There is one section that I do take umbrage with, and it is the subject of my titular rebuttal. (Which is also a good name for a Pam Anderson biopic.) On page 25 of the paperback copy, for three and a half pages, Almond lists and denounces those candies he does not see fit to eat; moreover, he eviscerates them, writing, "when I disapprove of a candy, the sentiment often veers into wrath." He titles this section Mistakes Were Made. Yes, Mr. Almond. Yes they were.

*Twizzlers
He begins with an inquiry into the red licorice straws' popularity, describing its texture as "fall[ing] somewhere between chitin and rain poncho." Chitin, by the way, is the hard, glossy material that makes up the exoskeleton of certain insects. I admire the description: tangible, surprising. And honestly, I can see what he means. Just because it may feel like I'm gnawing on an ant's molted torso doesn't mean that Twizzlers aren't completely satisfying. Embrace that plasticity; Derive pleasure from the slow release of artificial strawberry flavor from the chewed upon rippled stalks. I believe Almond's error was one of mastication strategy. In order to unleash the Twizzler's full potential, you must keep the single straw whole for as long as possible. Place one bite's worth of Twizzler in your mouth, but do not sever! Nibble the edges. Employ some light suction. As the bite lingers, it will dissolve, ever so slowly, transmogrifying from that tough, bendy rope into something else altogether, with a nuanced, developing flavor and, dare I say, subtle hints of ambrosia.

*White Chocolate
Almond describes a cross-country flight where, after scarfing down a white-chocolate lollipop, he threw up profusely. Vomiting, he writes, struck him as a proper response to this product which, truthfully, is not even chocolate, having not an ounce of cocoa. He makes a valid point. White Chocolate should not, in fact, be called 'White Chocolate.' It should be named something more representative. May I suggest a few ideas: Tongue Beauty Cream; Heavensent Yummy Yum; Milky Superness; Deliciousosity; The Edible Incarnation of Kathy Ireland, circa 1994.

*Marshmallow Peeps
(Otherwise known as, the greatest recombinant of sugar and sugar since that one fateful night with the Sugar twins of Beverly Heights.)
Our author dismisses Peeps for "encourag[ing] the notion that it is acceptable to eat child offspring." He notes the "piss yellow" color of the original. But look beyond the weird carnivoristic subtext. Grab a box of the brand new Green Peeps if you must. They come in rows of five, each baby chick attached at the malformed hip. Take the end one. Bite off the side-wing first. Relish the extra sugar, as the middle three will not be privy to such things. Then take out the head; no need for those beady food coloring eyes to stare longer than necessary. Consider this an act of mercy. Finish off the torso in two small bites or one, depending. It is the marshmallow you can eat whole while remaining socially accepted. Since bags of Jet-Puffed mallows became ubiquitous, you've yearned to eat them unadorned with melty chocolate or crumbled graham. The Peep is your permission slip, your gateway to anaphalactic bliss.
Whole or in bites; Fresh or stale: Truly, a Peep's house has many mansions. When microwaved, they bloom up to four times their size. Its granulated membrane barely contains the ooey goodness within, now warm and deflating, the very act itself mirroring our own growth and subsequent decay. Leave them out and their skin hardens. These are no Twinkee anomalies, immortal and ever-lasting. Peeps do expire with time. But be patient, for next spring those pliant chicks will rise again, fresh and puffy and new, waiting to abscond with our past candy-eating sins.

I hope I've made clear my position on Mr. Almond's rash judgments. He also disavows coconut and Lime LifeSavers, among others, but those will have to wait. I just opened a package from home filled with Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, Vanilla Cream Chocolate Eggs, and, of course, Marshmallow Peeps. We're about to get down with some serious self-consecration...