Attention food manufacturers: I could be representing your product online. Hire me and experience a whole new world of exposure. What would it be like? Here’s a little taste. –Ed.
“What is that?” some moron asked me one day.
I chewed and gulped hard. “It’s a ham and cheese sandwich,” I replied even though my mouth was still full.
“And what the hell is that?” they continued with their clever line of questioning.
“I’ll be happy to explain it for you.”
First find yourself some wheat. Harvest the caryopsis (a combination of endosperm, germ, and bran) and mill it to a fine powder. Add some water and a handful of single-cell microorganisms (species Saccharomyces cerevisiae), stir, let rest and insert into a high-temperature chamber for awhile.
Meanwhile kill a pig. Process the meat via curing, smoking or salting. Slice the meat thin.
Find a cow (preferably a female). Gather the white liquid produced by the mammary glands. Allow the liquid to curdle, then beginning mill when it becomes curds. Do this for a long while until the sharp edges of the curd pieces are removed. Allow to ripen. Finally, process the whole thing with additional cow white liquid, salt, preservatives and food coloring. Shape (wheel or loaf) and allow to harden. Be sure approx. 10% or less of the final product is mold. Slice into thin pieces.
Using the same white liquid, agitate forcefully until the fat is separated from the rest. To the fat add salt, flavorings and preservatives. Spread this substance on half of the baked wheat product made earlier.
Finally, take an emulsion of oil and combine in a blender with the golden-yellow part of the chicken reproduction process and vinegar or lemon juice (your choice). Spread this on the remaining wheat product.
Stick the processes thin meat and thin pieces of white liquid mold between the wheat product pieces. This entire assembly is known as a “sandwich.”
Optional: Fry the whole thing in a skillet, if you wish. It can be served hot or cold.
Note: You can skip the “find a cow” sections by purchasing Kraft Singles which adds the following additional ingredients: milk, whey, milk protein concentrate, milkfat, sodium citrate, contains less than 2% of calcium phosphate, whey protein concentrate, salt, lactic acid, sorbic acid as a preservative, cheese culture, annatto and paprika extract (color), enzymes, vitamin d3. (Source: Wikipedia.)
I am not a foodie. (If you have to paint me in a box go with trekkie.) I know I’ve written about food a lot lately. It’s just this naive bleef that we have a right to know what we eat. And that increasingly the people who make food are seemingly at cross-purposes to that deceptively simple objective. (And sometimes cross-porpoises but that’s another story.)
Take Taco Bell, for example. (Figuratively, not literally, I hope.) A while back there was a hubbub that Taco Bell’s “seasoned beef” was rumored to be 35% beef and 65% other stuff. (Taco Bell eschews the word “filler.”)
Well, Taco Bell wants you to know the truth. They are proud to announced that their “seasoned beef” product is a whopping 88% beef and only 12% other stuff.
Forget about the daily grind, it’s time for an afternoon party! 88% is pretty damn good! Hot mess good. If only we could achieve that standard for everything in life.
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I have nothing to say right now. For example, take this post. WordPress told me it’s been in the Drafts folder since October 14, 2009. You can interpret that as an omen that decidedly does not portend well:
Warning: Excellent content ahead.
Why else would I work on it for such a long time? Obviously I refused to be rushed.
The thought crosses my mind, though, that with nothing to say, I probably wouldn’t be a good candidate to be a delivery driver. Think about it. Can you imagine spending your days going into small business offices and engaging in the same inane banter over and over again? The same boring chitter chatter? Day after day? Unimaginable. Unless you have a job. That’s pretty much also the definition of “work.”
“What? A package? Who’s it from?”
And now a continuation of the non-award winning Q&A series we like to call Dear Guru. -Ed.
Like you, I run a “blog.” Like you, I try to post every single day. No matter what. But today I strangely find myself not in the mood.
What should I do?
Mood is a thing for cattle, you idiot! You blog when the necessity arises—no matter the mood! (Mad props to Gurney Halleck.)
When I find myself in that situation I usually pump out something super lame, like an advice column, and hope that no one notices. The important thing is to use some words.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go stroke my baliset.
I was already full. Case in point: She was toting a box of leftovers but I was not. Mine had been crammed down my gullet. This scenario would soon allow me to put my advanced decision-making skills on display.
We walked into the shop and it was what I like to describe as “Portland cute.” The place was constructed to look post-industrial. This means concrete walls, vaulted ceilings with lots of duct work, lighting fixtures that hang all the way down from the ceiling and, of course, the pièce de résistance of the Portland eatery scene: the fake garage door. Those things are ubiquitous around here, perhaps even on par with the fedora and other trendy chapeaux.
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Big Bird has been pondering what new career opportunities might present themselves if his funding gets cut. Let’s put it like this: He doesn’t want to end up at Chick-Fil-A.
So, at his urging, it’s time for a post about your friend and mine. This post will explore a few randomized thoughts about meat. Some will be deadly serious and no joking matter. Some will be as frivolous as what you’ve come to expect from the likes of me. Some will be philosophical. And at least one will be a reveal of a personal nature. I hope you’ll find this post to be a cut above the rest.
Does this post have anything to do with Montana? Not really, if you get the cut of my jib.
Make the jump for the first cut-scene.
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