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.