What Goes In...

I just stumbled upon a new type of degree, one that is, I suspect, even less practical than a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

The world's first Master in Fine Food and Beverage.

Hey, I'm all for expanding the palettes of the mainstream beyond high fructose corn syrup and cheezburgers. I think Top Chef is excellent television. The fondest eating experience I've had in my post-SpaghettiO days involved crispy calf brains and a Meyer Lemon souffle. (R.I.P. Portland, Maine's Bandol) And the idea of higher education finally supporting and preparing those interested in the pursuit of gastronomic greatness fills me with something not unlike the cream-filling in my step-mom's homemade cannolis: rich, sweet, and studded with chocolate chips. In short, happiness personified. So what's the problem?

Below, their online banner ad:

This is the first image of an animated GIF file. Unfortunately the rest of the images do not cycle through after uploading the picture. Here is the text that appears in the white space above:

"Come and see" ... "how tasty" ... "A Master in Management can be."

Then: "The world's first Master in Fine Food & Beverage"

The program is run through an Italian business school called SDA Bocconi. It begins in 2009, and runs for 12 months. Sorry, latecomers--The deadline for applying was June 30th, 2008. You'll have to wait until next year to learn how to prepare, cook and sell the very finest coils of moist poop.

I Recommend: Brown Bread. Plus, a dialogue.

The name says it all. This is Bread, it says. Also, it is Brown. Now eat me.
"But why?" you might say. "You are but brown bread. I know few breads which are any other color."
What of white bread?
"The most elusively named of all the breads. Look closely: That is a light, light brown."
And marble rye?
"Merely different shades of the same hue. Brown and brown."
Pumperknickel?
"A quite dark brown, but brown nonetheless."
Sourdough?
"Please. That is no bread. That is an antacid pill given form. Press it to your skin, and in time you will develop a slight burning sensation. Is it the high yeast content? The flaky texture? No matter: As the nipple chafes under constant shirt-rubbing duress, so, too, does the stomach yield to the Sourdough."
What are you talking about?
"I am trying to talk about Brown Bread."
Well, go on then.
---
It's cooked in a can. Take that old soup can of yours, fill it with flour and molasses and other ingredients (this is no recipe, but an appreciation), and throw it in the oven. Soon you will have what is known as Brown Bread, and though it is assuredly the former, I'm not sure you can call it the latter in good faith. But you can believe me when I say: It is a tasty diversion. And shaped like a cylinder, no less.

Now slice that silo-shaped brick. Thin, thick, however you choose; I prefer a medium slice, about one-half inch wide. Toast it. Not too dark, but you'll want a slight crispness to the surface. Once it's warm and toasty, spread your chosen condiment atop the dense surface. Two favorites:
-cream cheese with green onion and chives
-a thin layer of cinnamon butter, a thick layer of chunky natural peanut butter
Take small bites and chew slowly. The air is cold; the longer you consume, the more blood will circulate in and around your stomach, allowing the skin around that most sedentary of torso locations to warm up, heating your body from the Belly Button outward in concentric circles. Now, look closely: Those are the indentations from that molded aluminum can, the same shapes surrounding the outer surface of your Brown Bread, the ever-rippling water after the first cast stone...

Also available with raisins!

In the Pie of the Beholder, or: Giving Thanks.

A pie is a unique thing. Some might say "important," even. It brings together disparate* elements into one cohesive form. What sets pie apart from other concepts with this many-into-one trait (cake, sangria, the U.N.) is that each element remains distinct. It reminds me of some Catholic mass prayer not-yet-uttered: "Lo, thou hath given us the crust, and we bid you great tidings; and here, thy filling remains, invigorated with the shine of our unholy decadence, for which we regret and are forgiven through the use of fresh whipped cream." And so we have the crust and the filling, or topping, or sometimes both. But where a Carrot Cake takes its spongy body and cream cheese frosting and carrot shavings and becomes one, the Pie is and always will be many.

---

At Thanksgiving this year, our table was again covered from coast to coast: large serving platter after serving platter, with a casserole dish or two in between. In fact, we didn't even use a table. Our embarrassing modern-day cornucopia was laid out on the top of my uncle's indoor Hot Tub. Though the molded plastic top was opaque, it occurs to me now how cool it would have been to have a transparent covering between the food and the blasting jets, our dark meat and cranberry relishes and chunky mashed potatoes being warmed by the primordial bubbling seen below. Or maybe all that artificial foam would have been unappetizing.

We ate well. Regardless of the fact that this particular suburb was mere miles from the bailout-free auto industry's epicenter, Detroit, and that the host worked for one of the Big Three, and that an attending cousin worked on a factory line soon-to-be shutdown, we ate well. Our turkey had been brined, soaked for 24 hours in a solution of salt, pepper, brown sugar and herbs, then rinsed and cooked. Its moistness rivaled the glass of nouveau Beaujolais I sipped between bites of tender thigh. The stuffing was flecked with hearty chunks of sausage, an ingredient sorely missing from other traditional menu items. Imagine: Sausage-smashed potatoes? Gravy au jus de saucisson? An annual highlight is the cauliflower casserole, a gluten-free miracle of science and butter that screams for national prominence and a high-profile ad campaign alongside giants of industry like Stouffers or Sara Lee. The cranberries were serviceable, if only for that added dart of bright red on a plate heaped high with brown and beige. I don't remember anybody getting seconds, but nobody needed them. We ate well.

After a cup of decaf, so hot and soothing, cutting through the post-gorge film of satiated saliva, the desserts appeared. And this is where my little holiday reminiscence takes a turn toward horror show. As often is the case, the previews were the best part. Another cousin had made and brought Rum Balls, a name deserving of puns which will go undiscussed here. But damn, they were tasty. Small spheres coated in confectioner's sugar, you could pop 'em in your mouth whole if you wanted to, but you shouldn't. Bite that itty bitty ball in half. Notice the subtle ting of sweet from the sugar coating, the chewy consistency of uncooked cookie dough, the sharp and surprising spike of rum in the back of your throat. A variation was coated in peanuts, but I preferred the sugared ones, smaller with a smoother mouthfeel. Eat enough of them, and you won't be feeling your mouth anytime soon.

Next to this platter were two dishes. The Pies. Someone asked about the whipped cream, and the host flew up and back down the stairs (we dined in the basement) with the immediacy of a Samaritan spotting a street-crossing old woman.** Their fresh-made whipped cream was legend; the cold cylinder once again held fluffy treasures, this year with a hint of cinnamon. But as topping to what? First: a sliver of Apple Pie. The crust "lid" was elegant, with a purposeful triad of swooping lines etched out of the top. Golden brown in color, a darker hue around the edges hinted at filling overflow, but no matter. The familiar insides held true to the formula: sliced Granny Smiths, sugar & cinnamon, nutmeg, dabs of butter long since soaked up. The crust foundation was sturdy, if not as flaky as a flake-hound might hope for, but I am not he. Also: My mom made it. It was delicious.

What is left? Why, the Pumpkin, of course. Thanksgiving without Pumpkin pie is like Halloween without pumpkin-carving, a Presidential election year without a few pumpkin-faced candidates (2008: M. Romney, J. Richardson, R. Paul). But something looked off. This pie was not the rich, deep-orange color I knew and dreamt of. This was a lighter orange, similar in hue to the coating of a creamsicle. And like that, it was melting. As was my heart.

"It's a Pumpkin Ice Cream Pie," my step-aunt said. She might have said it was destined to murder my first born. "'Pumpkin ice cream pie?'" I repeated, a cry into a canyon for justice, mercy, only to have the echoing answer reconfirm the existence of life's cruel absurdities: "Pumpkin ice cream pie."

Now, I love me some pumpkin-flavored products. With the coming of fall comes great seasonal treats, centered around the famous gourd. Pumpkin pancakes? Oh yeah. Pumpkin chai? Sure. Pumpkin ravioli? Why not. Grilled Pumpkin & Cheese sandwiches? No--who let you in here? Get out. Sorry about that.

But the Pumpkin Pie is a sacred and holy vessel. As a kid, I admit, I didn't love the odd consistency, the pungent odor, the lack of visible chunks. But I've grown to adore the sweet unctuous filling, the shiny appearance. Its complexity is found in how simple it is. Nothing bears even a passing resemblance to it. The Apple Pie has its siblings of Apple Crumb, Apple Brown Betty, Apple Tart. A Cherry Pie has the Cherry Cobbler. French Silk Pie, Chocolate Mousse... what's the difference? But the Pumpkin Pie is singular, mysterious in its conception. That a successful Pumpkin pie can be made with 80% of its ingredients from a can makes me think of another miraculous birth. Is it any surprise to find out that myrrh is reddish-brown in color?

But this: This is no Pumpkin pie. This is pumpkin-flavored ice cream smushed inside a graham-cracker crust (fine in its own right but an accomplice to a crime, like a valedictorian student driving the getaway car) with caramel sauce drizzled over top. As a dessert, you could do worse. If this was a third option, I would take note of the maker's chutzpah and scoop a bite or two. And it was tasty; I scraped the melted pie and graham crumbs off the plate with my spoon. But as a replacement for true, succulent, satisfying Pumpkin Pie? No. No no no. This was the inevitable stolen from time; this was the uninevitable. My pumpkin pie was taken away from me. And I'm still stinging from its absence. Guess there's only one thing to do... learn to make it.


*On Princeton's online dictionary, a curious example phrase is used to help define the word: "such disparate attractions as grand opera and game fishing." In this analogy, my guess is that the filling is Pie's opera, and the crust is its fishing, but I know crust aficionados who would disagree.

**I could do better. Alternatives are welcomed in the comments section.

Like Rice In A White Kid

As a burgeoning eater, I was fearful of the mix. I can remember sitting at my family’s dinner table, staring down at my plate, and immediately going to work. Knife in left hand, fork in right (I had not yet learned the European style I so preciously attend to now), I would nudge the chicken breast to the lower-left corner, keeping the flowing lemon-pepper sauce at bay with the flat edge of the knife. The vegetables were fairly reliable in their stoicism; still, my fork pushed them back toward the perimeter of the plate, in case a broccoli floret happened to tip and the resulting momentum urged it on toward the mashed potatoes. My plate management had no firm guidelines, though a buffer zone of an inch or two usually sufficed.

And then there was the rice. My mother the cook was nothing if not consistent, and her strict adherence to the unwritten rule of three was stirring in its regularity. The rule of three: Meat, Vegetables, Starch. My accompanying glass of milk almost completed the Food Pyramid quidfecta – it was if she expected representatives from the FDA to barge in unannounced, brandishing special measuring devices looking suspiciously like syringes, and test our plates for the recommended allotment of proteins and carbohydrates. On those days when mandarin orange slices topped our cottage cheese salad, the missing Fruit portion was accounted for, and the spying neighbors went to sleep that evening assured of my mother’s meal-crafting dominance.

But back to the rice. Its strengths and my own commingled like squid ink over oatmeal—not at all well. I prided myself on separating each of my meal’s components like instable chemicals, as if not knowing which might be the catalyst for catastrophe. This may or may not have been the product of my father’s own dinner plate tectonics; he mashed chicken into potatoes, finagled peas into flounder, coerced cube steak into an A-1 aided roux. I was horrified by the resultant muck on his plate, and even more terrified when he shoveled it in with voracious glee. I took pains not to mimic his disgusting manner; I kept my opinion of his habit like my lap napkin, secure and out of sight.

The rice, seriously. If allowed to absorb the sauce, it would undoubtedly be a tasty and satisfying side. If taken in bites with forkfuls of seasoned veggies, the texture would add a much-needed quality, I am certain. The necessity to limit any touching between plated foods admittedly did a disservice to this otherwise capable carb. The white rice on my plate remained plain: the maneuvered pile, a clump of flavorless, granular nothing. I should have blamed myself. Instead I blamed the rice, and as such, did not deem it worthy of my swallowing. Most nights I choked it down. One evening, I decided to revolt.

I took a forkful of plain white rice in my mouth. The fork came out; the rice stayed in, but it was not going down. And if it did, its next direction would surely be up. Tight-lipped and silent, I thought about swallowing, but did not. My abstinence was not demonstrative; this wasn’t a protest to Rice-Eaters around the globe, just to the clump of it in my mouth that, for some reason, I could not bear to let slide down the food tube. My father-the-mixer’s prognostication was keen—he ordered, “Swallow the rice, son.”

But I couldn’t. It sat in my mouth, slowly dissolving into a mass of white, unchewed cud.

“You may not leave this table until you swallow that rice,” my father said.

I mumbled a rice-addled retort indecipherable to the room. The remaining occupants—my older brother and sister, my mom—silently chewed and swallowed their food. Then my sibs left. Though I don’t remember for sure, they might have caught my eye while leaving, a gesture-free nod of solidarity—Stay strong. I remained, my cheeks puffed, the back of my tongue pressing more and more firmly against the opening of my esophagus with each passing second. In hindsight I do not even know why I was so dead-set on not eating the rice. I’d done it before; sure, it wasn’t my favorite thing, but neither was brushing my teeth, yet I hadn’t set an embargo on Crest Fresh Mint Gel. There was something else at work here, some malevolent, unseen, psychological force. Perhaps I knew in five years time he would not be living with us anymore, moving into an apartment two miles down the road, and this was my one chance, feeble as it might have been, to take a stand. Or maybe I just really didn’t want to eat my rice. The longer it marinated in my saliva-filling mouth, the worse the eventual gulp would be. There had to be another way.

“Swallow it,” he said, rising from the table. My eyes widened. He stepped heavily over to my seat. I made a few more sounds of resistance. He placed one hand over my already clenched mouth—

“Swallow it!”

I shook my head meagerly back and forth, humming more and more resistant cries into his palm placed against my lips. My mom finally piped in—“R_______, please, stop it!”—and he relented, storming off, leaving his mess of combined food to stew on his unkempt plate. I peered over to my mom, silently asking permission. She nodded, and I opened up, letting the clump of soppy white mush fall onto the plate, uncaring that it plopped squarely on my remaining bites of chicken and broccoli.

I was sent to my room. My father came up later, maybe ten minutes, maybe two hours, to spank me. That was the sole example of corporal punishment against me I can remember.

Fifteen years hence, the “rice incident” has become one of those family myths, often referred to, the story never regurgitated fully. “Swallow it” is now a tagline or sorts, a quip playfully thrown out during mealtimes whenever anyone gets a bit testy. You mean you liked that movie? A good-natured argument breaks out. “Swallow it!” someone says, our plates long since cleaned. We laugh. My dad honestly says he doesn’t remember saying it. And I now possess an almost compulsive desire to have each bite I take incorporate every single element on my plate. A slice of ham, a segment of pineapple, a trace of sauce, a wedge of potato, a sprig of cabbage. And sure, maybe even a grain of white rice.

(Alternate Title: "Rice of Passage")

Three Diners in Three Days

Today's Day O' Labor was the third in a three-day breakfast binge. The father-figure was in town, and we went diner-hunting. (And I've ran of out hypens--of dashes, however, I have plenty.) In the spirit of competition, I ate almost the same plate at all three aluminumly sided establishments. But first, the purveyors in question:

-Kelly's Diner, in Ball Square, Somerville
-Deluxe Town Diner, in Watertown
-Rosebud's, in Davis Square

The plate: Two eggs, two pancakes, sausage/bacon, home fries, toast, bottomless coffee.

All three were exceptional. All three, eaten on subsequent mornings, necessitate a weeklong detox of cold cereal and valencia orange juice. But there were differences. And like babies, though all bundles of joy and miracles of nature and what have you, some are cuter than others.

The waitress*: KsD - Red hair, youthful (in comparision to the lifers working the counter), efficient though not overly chatty. Coffee Refill Score: 6.5

DTD - The youngest (20s), the tallest (6'2"-the father figure asked), and the most heavily eyelinered. From Belarus. Points for accented small-talk. CRS: 9

Rs - The oldest, and the most likely to have ridden cross-country with one of her former customers forty years ago. Points for make-up'ed cheeks matching color of diner name. CRS: 7.5 (minus 2, for the bad coffee itself) = 5.5

First set goes to Deluxe Town Diner.**

The Food (Skillet): KsD - Wheat toast, pre-buttered to a satisfying absorption, allowing the crispness to remain while having a bite or two in the middle still be dredged in butter, enough so that pressing down with the flat side of your knife onto the toast actually brings the soaked-in spread to the surface. From now on, we shall call it The Squeegee Effect. Two Poached Eggs, uncooked enough so that the yolk bursts in a satisfying deluge of yellow onto the toast, which has been expertly placed below it to catch the liquid rays of sunshiney goodness, cooked enough so that the white is solid. Sausage patties, salty and greasy and a fine supplementary flavor to bread and egg, packing some spice but not overpowering the unctuous warm magma. Homefries, providing good olfactory notes, a soft/crunchy texture, but honestly the least important element to the meal.

DTD - Wheat toast, slightly less buttered, but one extra slice, so that six halves stack up on the outskirts of the gigantic plate. Ultimately, one half will go unused. The opportunity is appreciated though. Two Poached Eggs: Oooh, this is where the DTD shines, such pillowy dollops, impossible nuggets of gold, King Midas' eyeballs after removing a lash with a pinky. I punctured the yolk and a jet of silky plasma shot out three inches to the right. Luckily, the toast was there to cushion the fall. But it is the white that secures this egg's place in the top ranks of my Poached Choice of Champions, because this white has been transformed, resembling nothing so much as the stuffing from the quilt stitched by your now-deceased great-grandmother, approximating a cumulus cloud turned physical, the cotton tail from that rabbit your sister had as a pet growing up which got out once and bit you but you still loved for its innocence and twiching nose before "accidentally" leaving the door of its cage unlatched and watching its little tail hop, hop away into the busy street before being punctured by a rolling Goodyear and its own jet of silky plasma shooting out along the sidewalk in my mind....*** um.... Three or so strips of bacon, thick, meaty, dark, cooked well, hearty. Home fries, again, fine and all, spritzed with tabasco, but, alas, forgettable, which is okay.

Rs - No toast. Two eggs, over-medium, which were really quite successful, in that they still ran and melded with the sausage links and home fries, but were still cooked enough to be slightly hard on the perimeter of the yolk, and the whites provided a solid balance, with no trace of liquidy globs, so like pre-digested orange pith that I frankly don't wish to consider the uncooked egg white any longer. On the whole, a lot better than this verve-less description makes it sound.

Second set? Deluxe Town Diner, in a 7-6 tiebreaker with Kelly's.

The Food (griddle): KsD - Two pancakes, 8" diameter, studded with chocolate chips. Some have melted inside, which is a good thing. Unique component: An unidentified something or other, which the father-figure has guesstimated as malt, which gives the cakes a sturdy heft and underlying complexity, similar to throwing Pop Rocks into a smoothie. The result is 1000% more delicious than the Pop Rocks analogy would indicate. The F-F's "Best Pancakes Ever." Points for being the prime motivation of his trip out east, aside from his youngest son, of course.

DTD - Two pancakes, 8" diameter, also studded with chocolate chips. Unique component: There's Sour Cream in the batter! Result is a tangy, fluffy cake that holds the chips and soaks in the real (!) maple syrup with equal aplomb.

Rs - Two pancakes (instead of the toast). 5 1/2" diameter. Points for butter mounded on the side, instead of the epicenter of the top cake. Serviceable, if un-outstanding. To be fair, Rosebud's was the third of our three breakfasts, so perhaps I was feeling less ambitious, not requesting the chocolate chips. In hindsight, should have given the French Toast a try.

Third Set? A tough call. For loyalty and my eating companion's sake, I'll give Kelly's Diner a win on an unforced error by Deluxe Town Diner. But Kelly's had to hold off two break points.

The Atmosphere: KsD - Classic, unpretentious, giant wooden cowboy statue, tableside jukeboxes, gruff-in-a-groovy way service. SelfPromo Score - 6, with a framed photograh with host of Food Network's show "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives."

DTD - Negative points for widescreen TV. Positive points for channel set to CNN ("Home of the best political team on television.") Guy who sat us was an older guy with greying, spiked hair who wore chunky-frame black and yellow glasses... call it a push. SelfPromo Score - 3.5. They sold too much of their own merchandise.

Rs - Nice mix of neon and antique artifacts. Tv in corner, but muted, and with a 4:3 standard ratio. SelfPromo Score - 7.5, with only a "Diners of New England" book for sale. Points for being featured in a "Ziggy" comic, which the author is finding funnier and funnier these days.

Fourth Set, in a surprise flurry of aces and cross-court winners, goes to Rosebud's.

Overall, all three are Diner-licious. If you're looking for a cool space to timewarp back fifty years, go to Rosebud's. If you're seeking out some serious pancakes and a heaping plate of good eats with charming old-lady service on the side, check out Kelly's. And if you want the finest Poached Egg this side of St. Peter's gates, roll on over to Deluxe Town Diner. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to lie down. Weekend brunch is just around the corner.

------
* It is an inevitable fact, that the person who serves you at a truck-stop/diner will be female. Reasons range from the highest level of socio-economic debate to the murky perversions of those prone to driving 2-ton rigs carrying liquid nitrogen for 48 hours straight. I'll leave you to debate amongst yourselves.

** The game of tennis is a fine analogy for a good diner. There is a back-and-forth, a kind of symbiotic relationship between customer and server/atmosphere. Love is involved. And at some point, you're probably going to arrive at Deuce.

*** Though the sister and pet were real, the door-unlatching vengeance was not. Honest.

Encyclopedia Wine

Tempted \`temp-tid\ n: 1. To be drawn in, as if by curiosity or allure. 2. My application video for the 2008 Francis Ford Coppola Encyclopedia Journalism Internship. Enjoy.



(Please set volume above to the halfway point. Thanks.)

The Taste of Powerlessness

Power brings with it many things, depending on the circumstances: responsibility, access, self-multipication, a feeling of overwhelming strength and invulnerability. But then something happens. You blow out your knee. You overstep your bounds, bringing upon you and your family the swift vengeance of a Don, or a Ghengis. You lose the ability to keep perishable foodstuffs cold. Sometimes, what we do when we lose our power is more important, and greater evidence of our character, than how much of it we have in the first place.

So when the spring-meets-summer winds clashed and ravaged southeastern Michigan this past week, rendering my host's home without electricity for four days, I had a decision to make. Do I go out for breakfast? Or do I enjoy my morning ritual of combined cereal in an oversized bowl, only this time, [gasp], without the milk? Let me breakdown for you the consequences of that meteorological disaster.

Day 1: The evening before, our power had gone out. In times past the problem out there in ElectricityLand was fixed within one score hours. Knowing this, I awoke to a note saying, among other things, "and try not to open the fridge," and immediately opened the fridge. My Cinnamon Toast Crunch + Raisin Bran Crunch + Life needed their Skim, and I, my daily allotment of pasturization. Anyway, the power would go back on within the day, I told myself, and all foods would remain chilled. I was not without sensitivity: I opened and closed with great haste. The cereal that morning was fine, if laced with a tinge of guilt, sticky and cloying in the back of my throat.

Day 2: Power still out. This time, the threat was not a seeping out of all-important cold air keeping our cottage cheese curdled but once and our processed cheese solid. Instead the milk itself had been compromised--over 40 hours of lingering refridgeration can keep a gallon only so pourable. This morning's warning was more specific, even in its unwritten, assumed state: "Don't eat anything from the fridge." A case could be made for the blackberry jam (it's mostly sugar and pectin anyway) and perhaps the spicy brown mustard (if anything, it'll be more spicy!) but the edibility of the milk was not in question.

And yet. I opened the fridge and grabbed that milk by the handle. I took a smaller bowl, somehow thinking the lesser volume would save me from the miniscule creatures swimming through the lukewarm kiddie cow pool, and splashed an inch into the bottom. After placing the milk back into the impotent Sub-Zero (no need to let it lose its lukeness), I poured the cereal over the milk. Why, I don't know, but this reversal in order of operation lessened, in my mind, the likelihood that my stomach would grow angry and convulsive after absorbing its morning medicine. Just in case, and since I needed more moisture for even distribution, I added tap water over the cereal, making the "mil-ter" that rose halfway up the see-through bowl the color of paint thinner. Of all the cereals, the Life morsels took most poorly to the change, being more prone to mushiness than that of the heartier "Crunch" varietals. Still, the end result was satisfying enough.

Day 3: The energy people have told us not to expect power until at least the following midnight. For fear of lumps dropping over my cereal and ruining the flake-to-raisin ratio, I did not risk using the Skim. Water fell into my bowl like blood running from the throats of the accidentally massacred. I am tired of compromising my breakfast.

Day 4: Last evening, on the way home from my sister's house, where my niece and nephew basked in the glory of their ice-cold sippy cups and thier Tivo'ed Nickelodeon (An impromptu rationale: what is breastmilk, if not milk left unrefridgerated for days?), I stopped on a whim and bought a pint of Cookies 'n Cream ice cream. My birthday cake leftovers could wait no longer; they needed the appropriate side dish. So what if it would melt in a few hours' time? I was sick of eating in the soft glow of oil lamps. I needed something to make me forget.

The next morning, that pint of soupy ice cream sat on the granite counter-top, morning light gleaming through drops of condensation coating the paper container. The fridge was now left open and emptied. Alternatives were legion: oatmeal, skillet toast, a choice of diners within five miles on all sides. But I needed my cereal. Another morning of water-moistened flakes might break me. Then I saw the ice cream. Or, rather, what used to be ice cream, but what was now a thick, slightly chunky-but-still-definable-as-liquid, settled into the bottom of that pint. I shook out my cinnamony, raisiny, life-y concoction. And then I spooned that melted ice cream over my dry cereal in a manner appropriating baptism. I spilled it carefully and evenly. The dark cookie chunks that settled on top? A necessary, if chocolatey, evil. I rinsed over them with a few seconds of recalibrating tap water, the better to stretch out the slightly foamy dairy product as the moistening agent it pretended to be.

After a few swirls and mixings, I was ready to dig in. I rose a spoon of cereal into my mouth. Before it even hit the tongue I could smell the sweet cream and vanilla bouquet. When finally my mouth took the offering, after four days of meager approximations, of false promises and tainted attempts, it remembered what it had been missing since last Saturday, nay, since the last twenty-seven years, as I had never switched the normal "milk" with the more ambitious, but now oh-so-obvious substitute of "milk+sugar+cream+flavorings." Finally, when all seemed hopeless, a long-forgotten hero rose from the depths of obscurity and into the cereal-filled bowl of my morning meal, causing stomach-lined euphoria in one very satiated breakfast'er.

In fact, the bowl as a whole was quite rich. I don't recommend it every day. But, if you find yourself without power and, on that fourth day, you need your daily dose, don't hesitate in re-using the previous evening's ice cream to pour over your cereal. Life (and power line vulnerability) is uncertain--Eat dessert first.

I Recommend... ("cookies + milk" edition)

So, I had me a sandwich for lunch a few days ago. And then, as I'm known to do from time to time, I decided to have some dessert. Just a little sweetness to cap off the meal. Previously, I had set out the remainder of the Vanilla frosting on the counter so that it would become pliable and room temperature--a cold tub of frosting is anathema to my gastronomic libido. I get out three Chips Ahoy White Chocolate Chunk cookies and place them on my favorite small white plate, about 7 inches across. Smear the frosting on the top of each cookie. (Some might say 'spread it along the bottom, allowing a more regular flow onto the flat surface.' I disagree, preferring the tricky terrain of the nobby chips and undulating cookie-peaks on the top. When you spread it along this less predictable surface area, several things happen: the nooks allow for small nuggets of frosting to be wedged into the cookie itself, causing a burst of vanilla-y goodness; also, if you cover the flat bottom in frosting, you have to place your cookies top-side down, and they might tip, thus coating your plate or carpeting or hard-wood floor in frosting, not your tongue. My point made, I move on, unimpeded.)

With cookies agreeably coated, you pour a couple inches of milk into a shallow cup/tumbler/mug. The amount of milk is dependant on you. Me, I like the milk for the dunking, only, so I usually didn't pour much more than was required. If you want to wash down the cookie with a leftover four ounces of milk, please do so. But here is where I come to the eureka moment... on this day in question, I did what I thought was egregious and foul. I overpoured. All that extra milk to be sucked down, by now lukewarm and beset with floating bits. So I dunked and fed on my frosted cookies, and they were as delicious as always, but an inch of milk remained. This is what I do. I place that glass of bottom-hugging milk back into the refridgerator. Three hours go by. Maybe four. I retrieve that glass of milk, sitting between the open jar of pasta sauce and a dish covered in foil that at one point might have held baked beans. The glass is frosty cool by now. I place it to my lips and throw it back like a shot. Ooooh. Hmm. This is good. This is different. This is CookieMilk.

Before, I had done this fine liquid a disservice by merely swilling it down right after all the dunking had been done. It had warmed, grown mealy, a feeble alternate to the proud tradition of bright white cow juice we as lactose-tolerant people have come to enjoy. But this time, in an accident smacking of Fate-capital-F, I chilled it in the fridge. The resultant beverage was a joy to consume. This was cocoa-infused milk, milk+dough, the hybrid love child of childhood itself. To all you cookie dunkers out there, I implore you: Pour a little more. Dunk away. Then save that clarified essence of youth, re-refridgerate, and drink like Santa after House #1. You'll be glad you did.*

*Edible Wrecks, MaybeIndecisive, or the attractive associates of Blogger.com are not responsible for any or all illnesses/disappointments that may or may not occur after consuming room-temperature milk, warm frosting, or cookies that are not Chips Ahoy. Please gorge responsibly.

A Thought Occured to me Yesterday, While Eating a Hershey's Kiss...

... that the structure and feel of the chocolate Kiss product was probably inspired by the act of suckling a mother's teat.

Here's what happened. I'm walking home from work yesterday, and I find a misplaced Hershey's Kiss in my jacket pocket. Hungry, I unwrap the morsel and pop it in my mouth whole. Something about the crisp spring air has me noticing the mouthfeel of this common candy for the first time. The smoothness of the surface, the shapeliness of the curved line, all ending in a tiny, tittilating tip. "Sweet Jehovah," I think, "The Kiss is a woman's nipple."

It makes a lot of sense. Whether a source of nourishment or eroticism , it's hard to diminish the subconscious appeal of a female's breast in your mouth. Those of us who were breast-fed, baby girls and boys both, have the familiar lip-locking act forever stamped in our primitive directories as something appealing: necessary for survival, even. Once we developed the teeth and gastric juices to chew on solid foods, however, this didn't stop us from seeking out other, non-lactating varieties for a nibble now and then. (Please note the unstated chronological gap of 18 +/- years.)

Someone in central PA thought to take advantage of this yearning in a clever way: By molding a cocoa areola and wrapping it in foil. What the tiny ribbon-opener signifies, this blogger does not know. But he won't hesitate to pop a Kiss in his mouth while pondering, nor will he think about the shapely chocolates the same way again.

The Cod

Gentle folks,

What you are about to see may shock you. But don't worry. This is merely the digitized fossil of an ancient beast, long ago destroyed...

This is a Cod head.

This is that same Cod head, as seen from the side.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Where can I get one of those for my next pot luck! And I agree, the cod head is a tasty, tasty dish. Sure, its gelatinous cousin (see above) lacks for visual appeal, but only in such a frozen state can one pick and choose the most delectable tidbits for nibbling and such.

Okay that's not true. A fish need not be jellified and molten for one to enjoy it. Nor was this one savored as it appears. This is the aftermath, the happy accident of a forgotten creature left in its ceramic sea for too long. A good friend gave me the fish to serve at a gathering. He taught me the fish's facial geography, so that I could share these secrets (or pluck the fleshy cheek for my own selfish consumption). In a way, the pot o' cod was a hit. Nearly everyone who lifted and peeked under the lid reacted in a way that conferred one of two emotions: utter disgust, or immense satisfaction. I'm an optimist. They thought it too beautiful to ingest. This is why I took home the entire head, minorly pecked at, and why, after a night in the icebox, the above abomination formed as if rising out of the primoridal, Fridgidaire ooze.

Stare at the top-down view of the Cod head long enough and you can see yourself in it. There's a lesson in that, somewhere...

An aside -- The same chef friend who gave me this to serve to people also served me, at his own restaurant, fried Cod sperm. He said it was an experiment; he didn't tell me what it was until after I devoured them. They tasted sort of like freshly made tator tots, with a kick of salt water.

This is what I'm trying to say: Be careful who you befriend in Portland, Maine.

One Month Later

It saddens me to think that such fine meat sauce went to waste on the streets of Chicago, U.S.A. Do not blame the wind. Blame whoever was so callous as to not send their leftovers to me.

P.S. If you find yourself in the same situation as the sicko who fled the scene above, I implore you: contact me. Honestly, there's something about eating someone else's undesired food. Think me unsavory if you will. But I feel it's not only an act of nourishment, or resourcefulness, but one of decent, heartfelt fulfillment. I speak of both parties here. One eats, the other is eaten: All are satisfied. It is as if I find a little orphan, lost and afraid on a park bench somewhere, and I place it into my mouth. Wait, that's not quite right... where's the backspace on this keyboa---

Now the title means something.

I noticed something a few days ago while walking outside. It was a windy day, and the regular assortment of street trash blew by my feet: a plastic bag now empty; an old Lil' Debbie wrapper, smeared with chocolate rubbings; an orange peel. And then I saw a cereal box. I believe it was some generic Raisin Bran. Just the cardboard box, no cellophane inner bag, no spilled flakes. But for some reason it reminded me of my trip to Chicago two years ago.

Before meeting my local pals, I spent the day taking pictures around the city. Most of these pictures were of spilled food. Food left out on the street. Food smashed up against the sidewalk. Food growing cold on a cement bench. There was something... poignant about these forgotten leftovers. Scoff if you will. But each one told a story, whether imagined or real. That styrofoam container of spaghetti? A construction worker's lunch, left almost untouched after he remembered he told his wife he'd stop eating meatballs for 30 days after "the meatball incident." The smushed banana? A group of neighborhood teens conducting an experiment: To see if a banana peel actually makes someone slip (they forgot to unpeel it first).

Am I making these up? Of course. Could they be the truth? Sure, why not. Might the real stories be more interesting than I could ever make up? Oh yes. Are the true reasons behind these food gaffes actually quite pedestrian, boring or merely accidental? Maybe. But maybe George Washington didn't actually cut down a cherry tree. You think about that. And while you are, I'll imagine the polka-dotted smear those fallen cherries made on the dirt field outside Mount Vernon, and how they looked just like a constellation of bullet holes...

And that's the other thing. Some of the scenes of food I saw were, in one way, beautiful. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of the image. Maybe the medium used, so often sucked down or nibbled at or twirled on a fork, was always associated with one thing (eating) so that now, to see it splayed out on the cement like Jackson Pollack's supper, was to see it in an entirely new way.

So here's the deal. I'm going to try and post one picture a week of food I've found* in some form, whether lost, crushed, emptied, scattered--any form outside of its usual, pre-eaten structure. The image might resemble something unexpected, like seeing a Chinese dragon in a cumulus cloud. It might trace a pretty line along the sidewalk. It might evoke an imagined story--How did that split pea soup get there? It might just be a funny picture. Whatever the food, however devastating or minor the spill, think about what it says to you. And then tell me about it. Comment on the picture with your own Origin story. Or share a moment when that same disaster happened to you, and the stirring consequences. ("And then I cleaned it up with a paper towel. I was never the same again.")

We eat food everyday. We also toss it out of car windows, or leave it on the picnic table, or shoot for the trash bin but miss. My hope is that we can start to notice such littered gems for what they are, or what they might be, and fully appreciate the potential of these Edible Wrecks.

Here's my first:

* Yes, this idea is somewhat similar to FOUND, a magazine out of my old college town, Ann Arbor, which collects 'found' items (lists, notes, polaroids, etc.) that tell a story. Davy Rothbart and Jason Bitner are good people. If they spill their Mac 'n Cheese into a compelling pattern on the floor, I hope they tell me about it.

Warning

Please.... PLEASE. If you love your parents, if you love the smell of freshly cut rain and the way the air feels after a lawnmower goes by, if you love crappy live-action Disney television shows and old black-and-white Nick at Nite, if you love all that is good and pure and holy in this world that also goes in your mouth, do NOT buy "Fat-Free Columbo Vanilla Yogurt."

Low-fat Columbo Vanilla Yogurt is fantastic. I was surprised myself. The mouthfeel is creamy, the yogurt coats your spoon, has a real heft to it, thick but somewhat delicate. The vanilla is there, and sure, a bit artificial, but not overpowering or treacly (which I just learned means "overly sweet; cloying").

The Fat-Free version does not resemble its low fat brethren in any way outside the similar packaging. When you open the lid, the surface is flat and plasticine, like a soup left out too long. The yogurt slides greasily off your spoon, leaving a thin translucent film. It glistens too much. Worst of all, however, is the aftertaste. Apparently the chemists at Columbo have found a way to remove all fat from yogurt by grinding down tooth fillings into a clear paste and mixing it into pre-existing products. Imagine Aluminum-flavored cough syrup without the woozy side-effects. Add a hint of sugar-free vanilla syrup, stir in some fake Kreem TM for bulk, and you've got a healthy, shudder-enducing glob of white.

If you're looking for a tasty, creamy, flavorful vanilla yogurt, get Columbo's Low Fat Vanilla. Use the Fat-Free stuff to unclog your pipes.

How to Cut a Pancake

The first time I went to a good breakfast place, I was young and finicky in my tastes. Plastered all over that laminated menu were options worthy of a king's gastric acid: fluffy three egg omelettes, cheese blintzes, fruit-filled crepes, and pancakes--oh, were there pancakes. Buttermilk pancakes, multi-grain oat cakes, chocolate chip pancakes, blueberry pancakes, Swedish pancakes, something called "The Mother Load," and something else, called the Big Apple, which was less pancake than an apple-cinnamony pastry fit for a giant's hands. But I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that I didn't know what it was, which meant it scared me. All of them did. So I asked the only suitable question one can ask when approached by a stranger in a mauve apron carrying a notepad, ready to jot down your every desire. Maybe the pressure of such unfamiliar opportunity made me crack. Because then I said: "What kind of cereal do you have?"

My friend and his dad who took us both laughed. When I waited earnestly to hear the list of boxed dry cereals they had on offer, they realized mine was not a joke, but an honest request. My friend kept laughing. His dad pointed to the menu in front of me, as if to say, "No, they have real food here, look." But I didn't know what I wanted. No--I did know. I wanted Frosted Flakes. My friend's dad saved me from myself.

"He'll have the silver dollar pancakes." And they were good. Not grrrrreat!, but good. I still had a long way to go.

I remember this now and, like my generous hosts then, laugh, but more than that marvel at how far I've come (or how little I inched out of my comfort zone so long ago). I almost pity my former, cereal-requesting self. This isn't even what I wanted to share with you (and when I say you, this isn't some plural usage of the word, to stand in for the nonexistent English variant of the word 'you' that involves multiple people.... no, I am speaking to you, that one person who might be reading this, which, more likely than not, is in fact me.) (Speaking of which: Boy do you have nice hair.) But the story seemed like appropriate introduction to this, my first in a series of posts explaining How To...

...

How To Cut a Pancake (large version*)

Difficulty level: 3
Required skill-set: Low
Ratio of effort to results: 1/5

First, (1) slice into vertical strips, making sure to leave one half fully intact. Make cuts the width of your choice. (see Fig.1 below)
Personally, I like a pretty thin strip. The more cross-section space available, the more potential syrup-saturation you will have. Pancakes are like forests: The border areas are their most vital, active regions. Much like the deer that congregate along the perifery of woodlands, so, too, does the syrup soak into and rest along the edges of the cut 'cake. If you are a syrup junky like myself, I suggest you use this to your advantage.

Pour syrup over slices as you wish and eat.

Then, (2) slice your remaining half into horizontal strips. Why the change in direction? Since now the middle of the whole pancake is a new edge, if you cut perpendicularly from this new, longest side, you will allow yourself more total strips. Each will be shorter, but the resultant gaps between each section of pancake provides more syrup pooling to occur, good for both second-chance dipping and the aforementioned border-soak. Also: By leaving one half intact while eating the first half, your remaining 'cake retains more of its own heat than if sliced all at once. As good as these borders are for capturing flavor, they also allow the natural heat from cooking to escape, thus making for a colder, less satisfying second half experience.

If you have leftover syrup not absorbed into the pancake (3), you can either use the sugary puddles as a nice, prelaid foundation for your second serving, or next time be sure to adjust your pour.

Overall, this technique requires a modicum of patience, and an open mind, but fulfills the potential of a pancake through the use of simple, conscientious decision-making. May your 'cakes stay warm and syrupy.

*If you prefer Silver Dollar, or smaller, pancakes, I can not help you here. My cutting technique is reserved for the large, almost-plate sized versions which I prefer, and which you'll find at most diners or reputable breakfast joints. Quick hint: If you can place your closed fist over the pancake and not see the 'cake anymore, yours are of the small variety. Now, use that fist and punch yourself in the thigh, not hard enough to do any irreversible damage but enough to form a small bruise, so you'll remember your mistake and, hopefully, not repeat it.

Ted's Birthday: Observation #2 (Panera Bread)

Four seniors were eating lunch in the half booth next to me. One wished for ice cream. Another voted chocolate chip cookie. They left to retrieve their sweets, and five minutes later, returned instead with generous slices of chocolate brownie, outlined in thick frosting. One looked anxiously down at the plate, while the other three peered at each other, nodding slightly and counting under their breath. Then:

“Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Ted
Happy birthday to you!”

I don’t know how I should feel about this. At first I’m happy, to see this ritual of the young being performed by those who usually regard birthdays not as occasions to celebrate but to fear: another notch in the increasingly carved up bed post of life, soon to be woodchips. But these spirited four were exuberant. Ted was even joining in the song, not just passively allowing the day (and thus, recognition of his waning days en masse) to be acknowledged, but actively partaking in the revelry. The five-year-olds in attendance should’ve been taking notes.

My joy for these four soured, however, when I recalled my most recent birthday party. I was similarly among friends and family, but within the warm confines of my home, surrounded by not only plaster and brick, but memories, a past worth being nostalgic over. This mortar was thick; these walls were secure, as was I that day. Among those with whom I share more than genes, in a house I could walk through blind-folded, I was content.

My nostalgia dissolved to the scene in front of me. These four had sung with enthusiasm, yes, over gargantuan pieces of rich brownie, sure. But they were ringing in this special day not at their home, but at a chain restaurant. They were not surrounded by shared consciousness , but with businessmen on their lunch break, and divorced fathers taking their sons out for their weekend treat, and a ballerina class just out of their afternoon session.

It didn’t seem right, having this ritual take place in the public sphere. But perhaps I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe their brick-and-mortar houses have been sold off long ago, and their families have moved away, or visit them only on holidays, the twice-a-year visitation rights of the lonely and burdensome. The building in which they live might have a name that tries too hard to comfort: a Shady Pines, a Sunset Ridge. Maybe by surrounding themselves with all this vitality, this seething mass of book clubs and dramatizing teen girls and ringing cash registers, they immerse themselves in something like home: the human condition.

No one really eats alone. Sometimes, the table just isn’t big enough.

The Perfect Meatball Sandwich

I know the Meatball Sub (or Hoagie, or Grinder, or Hero, or however you refer to the idea of putting meatballs between bread) is not new. Still, I feel like I've come upon a particularly exciting new sandwich combination. Here me out. Try it for yourself. Then, write your local Meatball provider and share with them this tasty, warm, hearty lunch idea.

Garlicky Meatball Sandwich

But first, the sauce.

The Sauce

Combine equal parts Concord Grape Jelly (cheapest you can find) and Chili Sauce (the red, smooth kind, not the brown, beany mixture that goes on Chili Dogs) in a small saucepan. Heat on low while stirring.

This mixture will, at first, shock you. Do not worry. The Jelly will become less jellified as it heats, and the red chili sauce will coalesce with the purple to create a smooth, beautiful deep maroon. This is the time to drop in your meatballs.

I recommend the frozen kind, as they're easy to have on hand, and they're fun to juggle at parties. Continue to stir every so often. Ladle the sauce over the meat. Rotate each meatball so the outer surface is covered. While the meatballs + sauce simmer, prepare the sandwich elements:

-Two slices bread (Multi-Grain, Honey Wheat, or Potato -- save that Health Nut for morning toast)
-Two butter-knifefuls of Garlic Lover's Hummus, Cedar brand.
-Enough Sharp White Cheddar to cover one slice of bread.

Now: Slather one slice with hummus. Top other slice with cheese. When meatballs are done (the air above the saucepan will smell like old roses), remove about 4 and slice them 1/4" thick. Place the meat slices over the cheese. Spoon over extra sauce to cover unsauced cross-section of meatball. When fully covered, top with Hummus-coated bread, hummus-side down. Slice in half, horizontally (if you must, diagonally, but consider this carefully before doing so).

Eat while meatballs are still warm. Each bite will burst with delicious contradiction: the tangy of the sauce, the warmth of the meat, the chill of the cheese, and a creamy, garlicky finish from the hummus... I dare say this might be the perfect cold weather meatball sandwich with hummus and cheese ever. Let me know what you think.

***

ADDENDUM! The above is good. This alternative version is, possibly, great.

-Substitute the Garlic-Lover's Hummus for Lemon-flavored Hummus. (optional)
-Fry an egg, until yolk is soft, i.e., not runny but not hard and crumbly, either.
-Make sandwich as above, but place egg over meatball slices.
-Once top slice is added, flip sandwich so that heat from the just-cooked egg and meatballs flows upward, beginning to melt the cheese.
-Eat at leisure.

There's a Life in My Soup: Observation #1 (Panera Bread)

“We’re having fun now, huh!?”

A man asks this rhetorical, enthusiastic question to his mother, or mother-in-law. He’s older, in his early 60s; the woman might be 90 if not more. He speaks to her as if to a child. Before ordering, another woman, this one younger, possibly the man’s wife and the old woman’s daughter, told her not to go anywhere, pointing out the window and suggesting that she look through the glass and admire, presumably, all the parked cars. She obliged, staring at the distant, recently snow-dusted roof ornaments aligned in orderly rows.

The question in question was in response to their food. More specifically, to the old woman’s soup, which she apparently loves. “She can’t stop saying how good it is,” the wife tells her husband. This repetition, I imagine, is not due to her dementia, of an appearing and reappearing of the soup, each new mirage necessitating another proclamation of goodness. She says how good the soup is because it is good. She can taste the broth, feel the giving crunch of the barley, absorb the warmth of its vapors. Even if her sensory faculties have long since past, I believe her words would be warranted by her past experience with the soup, and not merely a learned knowledge of what to say when given a spoon in front of a bowl of liquid.

Looking at this woman, I could not fathom her having the physical capacity to lift the .2 ounces of Chicken Noodle to her mouth. But she had life enough not only to do this, but to judge it, effusively, as something worthwhile. This soup was not just lunch. It was an affirmation of life.

Her own existence, this grey-haired, stooped-over, breathing carcass of a woman, was nearing its last, china-scraping spoonful. But this soup—Oh, this was tasty. And observing her gives me hope that even the frailest of us can digest sensation.

Lies Your Gastroenterologist Told You

You've been lied to. All of your life, you've been told one thing, while the opposite is actually true. Your parents? White lies spouting out of their mouths like fake snow falling on a Hollywood sidewalk. Your friends? The ultimate fibbers. Your doctor? Mendacious as all the rest. The Surgeon General? President of the FDA? Liar, liar, patent-pending pills on fire. I am here to tell you the truth. And it is this:

There is no expiration date.

To some, food is good until it is not. You'll crack an egg and cook it sunny-side up and rejoice in the broken yolk as if spurred on by some Heliotropic pagan festival, but only until EXP 2/07. On February 8th, the cardboard henhouse gets tossed in the trash. And all of those unborn baby chickens die a second death.

But this does not have to be the way. Don't you know how many adult hens were brutally harrassed, living in excrement-stained confinement, a meager 10 centimeters of wiggle-room, to produce those eggs? Those eggs are tough. Ounce for ounce, they have more staying power than you do, my friend. Given the average weight of an egg is 56 grams, and an egg allegedly expires after four to five weeks, a 160 lb. man (72,574.78 grams) with the same lifespan as an egg would live to be 540 years old. But here's the thing--They can go even longer! Those white-, brown- and speckled-shell beauties keep on keepin' on like Sting on a tantric binge.

But my message to you doesn't solely concern eggs. My message goes deeper, is more purely satisfying than a simple Scramble or Fried. If messages were eggs, mine would be that most everlasting and tender of all preparations: The Poached. So read my words, allow them passage. Offer me a credence-filled ear. And listen again: There is no expiration date.

Don't believe me? I have evidence. I took leave of my apartment for twelve days over the winter holiday. Two days before my departure, I cooked some spaghetti, browned some ground turkey, heated a bit of Prego, tossed it all together and called it a meal. It was quite good. So I stored the leftovers in a Gladware plastic container, and left it in the fridge. The next night, I cooked brown rice in a roommate's rice cooker, boiled a bag of pre-prepared Indian food bought from a nearby market (a spicy, tomato-based mixture of shredded eggplant, onion and ginger -- post forthcoming), split the bag and let the heated goodness pour out over my fresh rice. I ladled it into my mouth on a pan-friend onion paratha, a sort of thin, flaky flatbread. A fine dinner, too fine to have but once. So I stored the remains next to my turkey pasta. Then I flew home to Michigan.

Cue film montage of twelve calendar pages flipping, dissolving into one another, until the final page flips, December 31st. I return. I spend a fine New Years celebrating with my ladyfriend companion. The next night, I open the fridge, looking for good eats, the first supper of 2008.

"How about this Indian food?" I ask her.
"That's two weeks old!" she answers.
"But it looks okay."
"No way."
"But..."
"No."

So, the following evening, with she of the frivolous taste-buds eating elsewhere, I took out again the Indian food first consumed a fortnight ago. The rice appeared stable, if a bit stiff. The red saucy eggplant portion, though, gave me pause. The sides had congealed, becoming orange. A plasticine film covered the middle. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, looking at this dish, smelling it, peering closely. It had been so good. I wanted to know that taste again. I prodded, delicately, into the aged mass, hoping for an answer within, somewhere next to the still-green peas and chunks of potato. My roommate said: "You know, the microwave will probably kill any bacteria that may be in there." And though I doubted her claim, facetious as it was, the eternal food-optimist inside my esophagus latched onto that faintest of hopes: safety-by-way-of-radioactive-short-waves. I forked the rice into a bowl, then the eggplant on top. Three separate sessions of 90 seconds on HIGH. I swirled the two components together, heating it one last time. I used a new fork, thinking the old food like uncooked chicken, and not wanting to contaminate the newly sanitized, microwaved version. And then I took my first bite. And a second. And a third. It was a tasty dish.

The next night, I found my old bin of turkey pasta. Heated it up in the micro. Buttered a fresh slice of potato bread to eat on the side. Another fine meal.

And so I came to my previously mentioned conclusion. There are no expiration dates. Only expired desires. So take another glance at that week-old meatloaf. Look anew at your forgotten farm-raised tilapia in a citrus-scallion medley. And those eggs? Feel free to get your Jules Verne on, and eighty days later, scramble away.

But more than anything, do not throw away, but eat. Eat long, eat late, eat beyond the tiny date stamped on your plastic or paper bins holding what was once considered fragile, a taste to be sucked up with haste, as if fleeting and ephemeral. Do not label old food "leftovers," but instead, "lastforevers." That tin of peaches, marinating in syrup and its own juices for eight months? Imagine the flavor saturation! The floating scum of green fuzz needs merely to be scraped away, tossed aside like the undesired stowaway it is. What new tastes might be found in such undiscovered country as that which we can now explore: Bottom-Right Shelf, Behind the Pickles, Screwtop Sealed Shut with the Glue of Ages?