And the Casserole Will Save Us...

A plate of food is a sacred object. The plate is but a vessel; the food, mere sustenance. But bring them together and a holy union ensues: life itself made digestible.

I'm reminded of the Sankara Stones, those glowing orbs needed to defeat Mola Ram, the evil voodoo sorcerer from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Separate, the stones merely look pretty (or burn the skin from your hands while clutching a rope-ladder suspended over a cliff). But bring them together, and they wield unfathomable power. So, too, does the Plate of Food bind disparate elements into one.

In the vast range of Plates available to us in any given meal, there is one that stands above the rest: The Thanksgiving Dinner. Within its oval confines, the plate holding said feast procures an alchemy of the highest order; sliced turkey, mounds of potatoes and gravied stuffing changes into something resembling divine fruits plucked from an elysian field. Simply put, they sure do taste good. Our thanks are many on this day.

This most recent outing was no exception. Let us look closely at one such example, and attempt to understand how simple foodstuffs attain the glory otherwise held for the successful rescuing of stolen journalists, or a surprisingly robust box-office draw.

Behold!

That is a serious plate of food. Notice how the only regions uncovered are the very outskirts of the plate. And between each section, barely a speck of plate below is visible. To begin to see how this plate works so well, let us break down each component.

Clockwise, starting at the top:

-Pink = Yam Apple Casserole
- Green = Sausage Stuffing
- Magenta = Dark Meat (Turkey)
- Yellow = White Meat ( " )
- Blue = Mashed Potatoes
- Red = Spaghetti Squash
- Black = Green Beans
- White = Cauliflower Casserole


The Yams
Originally a recipe from my step-dad's sister-in-law, the origins of this dish make perfect sense: This is many steps beyond your typical "yam" or "apple" dish, and to eat it makes you feel like Steven Seagal in Above the Law, schooled in martial arts and out for revenge... for all those people eating less-tasty sweet potato dishes. How dare they consume burnt marshmallows atop bright orange paste when they could be eating this? Sumptuous, sweet, and with a viscosity approaching "creaminess," the yams are a vital part of this plate. Best to be eaten first, while still hot. Also a nice addition to post-holiday turkey sandwiches in the form of a tangy condiment.

The Stuffing
See those slightly darker chunks amid all that flaky, scrumptious brown? Those, ladies and gents, are the sausage pieces. This stuffing is not stuffed inside the bird, but instead made separately. Any flavor this variant might be missing due to the lack of turkey-osmosis is overcome by the spicy warmth of the sausage. Some traditions remain -- celery still adds a crisp kick, and the stuffing should still be eaten as an ensemble, as it benefits mightily from a forkful of turkey and a dollop of mashed.

The Dark Meat
Oh, how it glistens. That shine is the beacon of taste, the glint off a moonlit pond beckoning us to disrobe, run down to the water's edge, and jump. The higher fat content of the dark meat allows for a richer, more succulent flavor, which makes most eaters' propensity for white meat all the more unsettling. Do not fear the Dark! For it will encompass you in its shadowy mass, and you will feel safe.

The White Meat
Serviceable as a carrier of protein.

The Mashed
Unfortunately, at least in the sample that I scooped, there was an absence of potato skin. Otherwise this was a fine representation of all that a good mashed can do. The mashed potato is a veritable contradiction: girthy and light, dense yet fluffy. It serves here as a palate cleanser, to be spooned between other, more powerfully flavored bites. Also, its malleability affords one to create a reservoir for gravy. Dunk your bite into this saucy well, then eat the container. Truly a rare delight.

The Spaghetti Squash
Here we come to the dark horse categories. Vegetables, like war, are often foul but necessary. The mother-chef has an answer to such untasty claims: Butter and Brown Sugar. Slice that squash in two, drop heaping piles of each additive into the cavity, and let those puppies bake for X minutes at X degrees. The product is closer to candy than either of its appellations. Also to be eaten early, so as to maintain its ideal temperature. Keep away from the gravy.

The Green Beans
As a young child, green beans filled me with a dread known only to those lost at sea on an inflatable raft losing air. I hated the soft texture, the murky color, the too-cute rhyme scheme of their name. Imagine my surprise, then, when our non-related guests (former housecleaners from Poland) brought a dish of the vile sticks and--shock of shocks--they were yum'tastic. I can't pinpoint the exact flavor that took them from abhorrent to worthy of James Beard. Perhaps their pantry of Western European spices holds a secret taste that, while barely detectable, rectifies even the worst foods into something edible. Call it Umami II.

The Cauliflower
This dish, a specialty of my Aunt J. who sadly cannot eat gluten, is the reason I still come home for Thanksgiving. (Or it would be, if I had an especially dysfunctional and unhappy family. Which I do not. But if I did, I would still come home for this dish alone.) Why? Three words: Butter, Cream, Bacon. Sure there's some cauliflower in there, but the eponymous veggie is not the highlight of this ridiculously good casserole. Here, the cauliflower acts like the tuba in a marching band. Without it, the entire group would fall apart, but nobody's watching the tuba in awe of its tuba-ness. And so the Cauliflower Casserole gets the prominent Center Position in my Thanksgiving Day Plate, allowing it to rub up against as many other dishes as possible to maximize its singular flavor, both exotic and familiar.

:::

I hope you understand better the subtle machinations inherent to a plate of food. Did I dish up a perfect plate? No I did not. Nor do I imagine I ever will. But I can keep trying, and heaping, and scooping, and hoping that this one is the one. And if not? Well, I'd love to go back for seconds, thank you.

There's an Apple for that

I've always wondered about the origin of certain words. 'Cantankerous,' for example. But food words especially arouse the curious feline within. Some are logical: Popcorn, Gumball. But others defy explanation. We've come to accept so many words as normal and obvious when, if made to stop and think about the actual words themselves, they cease to make any sense. This is all well and dandy if we're talking about monolithic search engines or the like: intangible, abstract, invisible at their root, 1s and 0s. When we stuff these nonsensically-named things in our mouths, though, is when I start demanding answers. Or at least a clever story. It's just dawning on me this whole exercise is a very similar concept as those Cheez-It commercials, where the kid explains how they got all that cheese flavor into such a small cracker. Oh well. So, without context nor explanation, I list a few top-'o-the-head edibles that get me wondering...

Lollipop
Marshmallow
Tofu
Cottage (?) Cheese
Barbeque Sauce (okay, it's used on meats grilled over a barbeque... but what the heck-fire is barbeque supposed to mean?)
Toast
Orange Juice (kidding)
Milk
Bagel (I know why it's called a "donut" but the unfried version evades me)
Seasoning (add a touch of fall here, some summer there...)

Um... Meatloaf? No, that makes sense. Cupcake? No, that makes sense, too. Okay, this is harder than I thought. And I realize a lot of the other strange food words (brenois, bouillabaise, burrito, etc.) are loanwords from other languages, or brand-names devised by white-collar types paid to think like ten-year-olds (Twinkee, Snickers, Miracle Whip). So... fine. You win. I detract my argument. You win. Happy? Excuse me while I gorge myself on toast (I get it now) with peanut butter (easy) and jam (yep).

Lobsters hurt. And so do I.

Forget, won't you, the questionable grammar of that title. My point is this: After having re-read David Foster Wallace's essay "Consider the Lobster" for the class I teach, I'm reminded of the extraordinary loss we* experienced last fall when the aforementioned author took his own life. He was 46 years old.

A. J. Liebling, another thinker/humorist/journalist, albeit one with a seemingly happier life than DFW, wrote a vast quantity of his most-beloved books after age 46, included The Sweet Science, The Earl of Louisiana, and Between Meals.

John Updike, prolific and revered, wrote nearly half his oeuvre after his fiftieth birthday: the latter two Rabbit books, eight short-story collections, four books of poetry, both Eastwick novels, seven other novels, and eight collected works of essays and nonfiction.

Joan Didion, still with us, published her vaunted collection The White Album in her forty-fifth year. Two novels and six nonfiction tomes came after, including After Henry, Salvador, and The Year of Magical Thinking.

The exercise could continue. But imagine: All this, erased, never put down on the page. Others would have filled those lines, somehow. I can't believe they would have matched the energy and vigor with which these writers continued to document their surroundings. Maybe this is a fruitless thought-drama: "Take away Shakespeare, and.... go!" Maybe I'm holding up DFW to unfairly high standards, to peers in higher echelons. I don't think so. But it makes me slightly ill to predict what the guy might have conjured up as his acerbic and athletic mind grew sharper with age. And that's what hurts the most: We have no idea what these conjurings might have been. We will never know.

----
*"we" = readers, eaters, state-fair attendees, cruise-ship travelers, tennis players, mathematicians, Lynch devotees, Adult movie watchers, jesters, interviewers, hideous men, Illinoisians, Pomona grads-to-be, those with reactive sweat glands, unpretentious polyglots, bandana-aficionados, i.e., literate and up-right human beings.

The Cheese is Mightier than the Pen?

So I'm at Panera Bread in beautiful, closed-minded Quincy, MA. In front of me: the remnants of a toasted Dutch Apple Raisin bagel, with a smidgen of butter and a layer of strawberry jam. Also: A tall mug of coffee that is 2 parts Dark Roast, 2 parts Hazelnut, and 1 part Decaf. Normally I'd wax digestive on the crunchy, brown sugar topping, or the moist succulence of the embedded raisins. But this is not what interests me today. There is a sign on the wall directly across from my table, about 6" x 8", and this is what it says:

"Asiago Speaks
Louder Than Words."

It's an advertisement for their Sourdough bread with chunks of asiago cheese baked right in. And yes, I agree, this is a tasty combo. Many a high school lunch was dominated by the cheesy girth of an Asiago bagel, which I then pronounced ah-ZAH-gee-oh before a cashier took pity on me and called out the order for me properly. Because of this abundance of bagel, and the requisite chewing, my jaw now cracks and clicks anytime I chew, with the decibal output ranging from a Whisper in a Quiet Library (30 dB) to a Telephone Dial-tone (80 db) to, if the submerged morsel is particularly tough, Sandblasting or a Loud Rock Concert (115 dB). This becomes worrisome when you learn that the level of volume at which sustained exposure may result in hearing loss is a paltry 90-95 dB. This same list explains that "Pain begins" at 125 dB, the same volume as hearing a Pneumatic riveter at a distance of four feet away.

Does it get this bad? When I chew, has pain ever begun? For the answer to this, I point you thusly: Ask my ladyfriend companion.

[LfC response forthcoming]

ANYway... I take slight umbrage (if umbrage may be slight) with this sign, stating the alleged power of this pungent, hard to pronounce cheese.

Louder than words, you say? Scoffing, I stuff the last of the Dutch Apple Raisin in my mouth and spout, "Nothing is louder than words! Words bear witness to the truth of history! Words have crumbled empires! Words have stricken down the influence of false gods, stripped Kings of their bejeweled crowns, stripped women of their underthings, confused readers of congressional bills! Words are power! Asiago? Asiago is but a puddle of old milk left to rot. Nothing is louder than words."

Nothing, that is, except my chewing jaw.

Why drink Hot Cocoa...

.... when you can enjoy a delicious, steaming hot cup of Chicken Broth!

So I'm checking out the soup aisle for some casserole ingredients. Lo and behold, a bevy of stock and broth options lay before me. I pick one up. Swanson. No MSG, check. 99% fat free, check. Then I read this:

"Use in your favorite recipes or serve as a piping hot beverage." (italics mine)

People drink this stuff straight? On a cold wintry night, people actually shove aside the Nestle's or the Swiss Miss and grab that carton of Swanson's Chicken Broth to quench their chilled thirst? And enough of them do so to necessitate printing the idea on its very package?








I can't believe this is true. But, let's face it, perhaps nobody else out there cares too much about this strange, atypical recipe. So. Here's the deal. If I get over ten comments to this post, I will call Swanson's Question/Comment Line (1-800-44-BROTH) and ask them about this very issue. Together, we can stop the proliferation of disgusting drink ideas everywhere.

"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...

Chyawanprash

Chyawanprash is a type of Indian supplement made from fruit and herbs. The concoction most closely resembles a very thick jam, if that jam was made not from strawberries or apricots but instead the thick clots of muck and twigs found in your gutters every spring.

I found the bottle in a nearby Indian market. Their shelves overflow with delicious-looking sauces and huge burlap sacks of Jasmine rice. For some reason I was drawn to this strange, humble container.

Okay: maybe not humble. View the full-size image and you'll read its intoxicatingly persuasive slogan, "Strength from Within." How could one not buy this for $3.49, especially when one needs quarters for the laundromat? One needn't worry. In fact, one was told by the waif-ish Indian girl who works there that its consistency was like Nutella. One should have paid more attention to her immediate addendum.

"But no," she said, waving her hands, as if waiting for me to throw the rope in the water, "it does not taste anything like that!"

I plunked it down on the counter, next to my frozen onion-flavored parathas. When I got home I read the instructions, not realizing I was reading instructions for what I thought was a spicy jam that boosted my immune system.

'Take with hot water, milk, or juice. May also be taken as Bread spread or Jam.'

Take? Why 'take'? As I soon learned, you do not merely take something made with 43 natural ingredients using a 2000 year-old recipe. It takes you.

That next morning, I spread half of my toast (I was being cautious) with a thin layer of Chyawanprash. Known for its antioxidant properties, this alternative to my morning spread of raspberry would surely make me leaner, healthier, happier, an altogether stronger person. From within. Other studies show I'm not alone in wanting to improve through a daily regimen of the stuff. I would learn later, after the toast, far too late to derail the effects, that Chyawanprash has been proven to prevent steroid-induced cataract in the developing chick embryo. None of this can be good.

While I still can.... before it's too late.... you must know the cause of this, whatever is happening to me..... here are the ingredients, the nutrient-rich list of herbs and fruit that is causing me to grow strong, oh so strong, until I can no longer bear my own strength and break from my skin like a tumescent cob of corn from its own inferior husk.... please help......

1. Fresh Indian gooseberry fruit, 2. Sugar, 3. Honey, 4. Clarified butter, 5. Long pepper, 6. Sesame oil, 7. Giant potato, 8. Cardamom, 9. Bamboo manna, 10. Indian kudzu, 11. Winter cherry, 12. Asparagus, 13. Cinnamon Bark, Dashmool (14. Bengal quince, 15. Migraine bark, 16. Indian trumpet flower, 17. Indian Purple Trumpet, 18. Sal leaf, 19. Urara pitch, 20. Indian nightshade, 21. Small nightshade, 22. Small caltrops, 23. Cashmere bark), 24. Country mallow, 25. Wild green gram, 26. Wild black gram, 27. Galls, 28. Feather-foll plant, 29. Raisins, 30. Ceylon-cow plant, 31. Irish root, 32. Chebulic myrobalan, 33. Round zedoary, 34. Nut grass, 35. Spreading Hogweed, 36. Blue water lily, 37. Malabar nut, 38. Liquorice [sic], 39. Ice plant, 40. Sandalwood, 41. Clove, 42. Chinese cinnamon, 43. Indian Rose Chestnut

And so I bit into that side of toast, the one with the gleaming black layer underneath the earthy nut-brown of Teddy's SuperChunk. The familiar buttery, peanutty taste soon fell away, as did I, into a swirling mass of pepper and anchovy and ketchup and sand and baby vomit and Coca-Cola and rhubarb and burnt hair and passing diesel trucks and baker's chocolate and carrots cooked far too long and dentist's fluoride and blood and the taste in your mouth when you realize you'll never be 12-years-old again...

Goodbye.

The Next Great Discovery

Breaking up is hard to do. That's why this is one of the more difficult decisions I've made in my brief time as an upright, masticating lad. It's been great, even lovely at times. But as we've seen so recently in the political world, sometimes change is okay. Sometimes it's just what we need to shake ourselves out of that glossy-eyed, routine-induced languor we find ourselves after 1, 5, 10 years of the same thing, time and again, making the safe choice because we no longer wish to feel anything like uncertainty. Certainty feels good. Risk begets fear. Fear begets discomfort. Discomfort begets gurgling stomachs and dry throats. So, I implore you, take a sip of water and listen to what I have to say. It might sound scary at first. But so did space exploration. So did transcontinental railways. So did mixing mayonaise and dijon mustard. Do you want to live in a world void of Dijonaise--a world where future Dijonaise-like discoveries will never be uncovered, never brought into the warming light of a people's awareness, just so you can stay on that straight and narrow? Broaden your minds with me. Expand. Be the changing tastebuds you want to eat with in the world.

Put away the maple syrup. Next time you have a waffle, top it with a poached egg. Break into that yolk. And let the yellow nectar flow into each nook and cranny, every doughy well in which your syrup used to pool. Bye-bye, Aunt Jemima. Hello, Grade A Jumbo Brown.

To all sayers of nay, bear with me. Allow the thought to sink, much like the oozing yolk will run down into the waffle's core. Whether Belgian or Eggo, it will maintain its structural fortitude while gaining that barely detectable tang of unbirthed chick. In more adventurous circles than the standard Brunch circuit, delicacies are often those foods that are most like their natural state--the raw oyster, the fish eggs, the duck fat. In France, one such dish is the Ortolan. A small bird that migrates from Sweden to North Africa, they are caught in nets and forced into a dark box filled with seed. They eat until gorged. Then they are drowned in Armagnac, a type of brandy. (This act of cruelty is one reason why they are banned from being served in restaurants. They continue to be eaten in shadowy dining rooms across France. One practictioner submits that being suffocated in liquor is a better way to go than boiling alive in scalding water, a la Lobsters, which is a good point. If you eat meat, you've already signed off on condoning unseen cruelties, so let's not split hairs, hmm?) After being plucked, their overflowing bodies are spritzed with salt and pepper, cooked for eight minutes, and served immediately. You place the entire bird (about the size of a young girl's fist) in your mouth, all except the head and beak, which sticks out of your mouth like a boasting youth's tongue. But your tablemates don't see this; to eat the Ortolan, you first place a large napkin over your head, much like a veil, to capture the aroma and hide the mess. Purists are said to take 15 minutes to finish. And no wonder: Skin, breast, thigh, organs, bones.... that's a large swallow to bite.

I fear I've gone off track. My point: birds taste good. Why else would chicken be the most popular meat in hometown kitchens across the nation? Why else do we eat turkey to celebrate our annual remembrance of colonialism with a (geno)cide of cranberry sauce? Why else did TV-watchers of the 70s eat up The Partridge Family? I could go on.

Instead, I will say one last time: Add an egg to that waffle. If you need to lay some syrupy goodness down on those parts left un-yolked, okay. If you wish to soft-boil in lieu of poaching, hey, be my guest. But be bold. Veer off your one-lane highway of Log Cabin. And exit into the small-town of Hen Baby, pop. 1, welcoming you to a new and delicious future together.

Carrots We Can Believe In

My roommate recently made some grilled vegetables. Much to our surprise, they took on a familiar and empowering shape....

Best. Meal. Ever.

Superlatives are a slippery fish. They should be easy to catch, right? Best film, best book, best birthday... But once asked, their outsides congeal like day-old bacon drippings, and we fumble with them to grab onto something firm, something right. "Erm, uhhh.... Spaceballs? No, that can't be... Goonies? Close, but not quite... Dr. Strangelove? Wait, too dark... " What seems like the easist question to answer becomes, in its very answering, an inevitable impossibility.

Food is even less concrete than other arts. (Unless the Ladyfriend Companion has her way with a burger. She likes them cooked all the way through, the better to throw at my head when I tell her to stop complaining about her chipped tooth. [That could be taken the wrong way. The meat's really tough and overcooked, I mean. {Hm, I guess that could be misconstrued also. Let us forge on.}])

Meal preference changes. My best meal as a kid? Homemade Enchiritos. It had all the fixin's of a Taco Bell burrito, cooked lovingly in our decades-old microwave. (My hypothesis: The higher radiation levels of early Micros gave the cheese a meltier, gooey goodness unable to accomplish now.) A soft flour tortilla, spread thick with refried beans, topped in seasoned ground beef, shredded cheddar cheese, Old El Paso taco sauce, then folded over and topped with more sauce and more cheese. Stick a toothpick in it and zuke that baby until all cheese is melted and sauce is bubbly. Let cool for 10 seconds, take a bite, burn the top of your mouth, let the boiling hot cheesy bite drop out of your mouth onto the plate, damn yourself for doing that again, wait another 2 minutes, and enjoy.

At 11, nothing's so good as cheese and meat and sauce. A decade and a half later, tastes expand. So the question of a Best Meal Ever necessitates many an asterisk and footnote and ever-increasing list of asides. Nostalgia accrues many points, swaying even the most hardened foodie away from the perfectly cooked monkfish and back to that pot of perfect chili eaten before the big game. A satisfying answer demands a massive system of specification, like animals and their many classes (family, genus, etc.) Is it a vertebrate? Mammal? Egg-laying multi-cell organism that breathes only bog water? I've gotten off track. Suffice to say, it's a hard question to answer. But one important enough to belabor the process.

For now, though, I have no doubt in my mind. My best meal took place in the spring of 2005, at the gone-but-not-forgotten Restaurant Bandol, in Portland, Maine. A full transcription of the experience would take many words, too many, and for me to say such a thing is remarkable. If a picture's worth 1000 words, a duck leg is worth, oh, 12,000. So I'll let the menu tell the story for me. Thanks, Erik and Jess.

-American Spoonbill Caviar with Creme Fraiche
-Caspian Osetra Hard Cooked Egg
-Winterpoint Oyster with 100-year-old Sherry Vinegar
-Italian Black Pearl Caviar with Coddled Egg
-Glazed Carrot Soup with Stewed Apricots
-Crispy Duck Tongue, sauce Graliche, Frisee Salad
-Maine Diner Scallop, Black Perigod Truffle, Creamy Leeks
-Crispy Calf's Brain, Capers and Cabbage in a Brown Butter Vinagrette
-Duck Tartare, Swiss Chard Wrapped Breast, and White Bean Cassoulet
-"Roquefort Papillon" with housemade Brownbread and Wildflower Honey
-Sorbet
-Creme Brulee
-Valrhona Chocolate Mousse Mille-Feuille with Creme Anglaise

Accompanying this was six small glasses of wine. I finished off with a coffee and housemade madelaines. Total Time: 4+ Hours. End result: Giddy euphoria, but that's not quite right. You've heard of Food Coma? This was Flatliners, prix-fixe style. They took me under and brought me back. I was changed that night. Into what--that is what we still don't know.

If you care to nibble on some of the tastes above, your best bet is Evangeline, Erik Desjarlais' newest foray in downtown Portand, ME. You might not get the Tartare or the Tongue, but by god, try the Crispy Calf's Brain. Best. Bite. Ever.

Two words, One unstoppable force: Pancake Puffs.

Watch this video, and see the future of gastronomy.

Highlights to watch for:
- The post-infusion ooze of an unnamed chocolate cream
- "No more pizza deliveries!"
- ILM-produced special effects to convey the even distribution of heat. My sources tell me this "red glow" effect was originally used for the Terminator's cybernetic eyes.
- The fairy dust sparkle sound when the pan's nonstick surface is wiped clean.

Buy one today! It's Pan-freaking-tastic.

"And on your right, an Olfactory..."

After a very patriotic day of consumerism, I walked back to the T station near Kendall/MIT. Then, it hit me: The unmistakable smell of Corn Muffin. I looked around. Was a homeless man holding out not the usual coffee mug or outstretched palm, but a crumby, warm, just-baked corn muffin slathered in honey? Had I snuck one into my pants, to eat later as a mid-day snack, and now my pockets were full of yellow bits? Were the very Green residents of Cambridge now using cornmeal as their alterna-fuel du jour? But no. I looked up, and saw this:

Billowing clouds poured from this building's smoke-stacks, giving the surrounding atmosphere an inescapable scent of Corn Muffin. Thank you, Industrial Revolution. If Marlboro could invent a tobacco with such euphoric fumes, I'd inhale a pack a day.