Cream cheese repentance

Warning: I’m about to bash a holy sanctity of health food.

But first I have to clear one thing up: I’m not a picky eater.

I know plenty of people, well over the age of 5, with diets that consist solely of chicken, pasta, potato, and cheese. I’ve eaten squid in its own ink and liked it.

Now that we have that cleared up, it’s time for some blasphemy. Grab your fiber zero-trans-fat rosary and hold on.

I don’t like tofu.

Now that I’ve made this public I realize my name is on the vegan mafia hit list and I’ve been excommunicated from the church of Whole Foods. Whatever.

I would describe tofu as having the grossest texture in the world. Since it taste like nothing and takes on the flavor of its brethren food ingredients, what is the point of sticking it in there in the first place? As a meat substitute? I’d rather go totally meatless, please, than ingest creepy, wiggly bean curd JELL-O.

And, full disclosure, I’ve eaten flan made from soy beans, and it was awesome. So, tofu, honesty, you suck.

Now here’s the lick. I can get down with tofu cream cheese. My roommate brought it home one day from a health food store while on a detox diet. It’s from a brand called Tofutti (known for its tofu ice cream) and the label says, “Better than cream cheese.” And since regular cream cheese already has a slimy texture, it doesn’t matter that it’s made from soy! I recommend the Herbs & chives flavor. Maybe they won’t be making an episode of Law & Order inspired by when they found my dead bodied buried under an organic turnip garden in Brooklyn after all.

Breaking breakfast

If you've ever seen the pilot of Arrested Development or had a mom, you may agree that "breakfast is the most important meal of the day" is a ubiquitous ideal.

If you are literate, you may have encountered one of what seems like dozens of scientific studies proving that, hey, b-fast does a lotta good for our brains and our hot asses. Indeed, there are plenty of physiological (and taste buddal!) reasons to leggo my eggo and eat it.

We get it. Eating in the morning is good for us.

So why am I still reading about VERY IMPORTANT studies emphasizing this established concept?

On Tuesday, a New York Times' health blogger posted information about a study among more than 2,000 pimply adolescents in Minnesota. Results: the fatties didn't eat breakfast. NOT BREAKING NEWS!!!!

In April's Good Housekeeping mag (FU, my mom subscribes. FU, yes I live at home still. FU, it's free for me. FU, yes I feel defensive about it.) one of the SUPER helpful tips to "supercharge your metabolism" is, whaddya know, a "hearty breakfast." NOT CRAZY FRESH REPORTING!!!!

So media criticism aside, we freagin know not to delay our seven bowls of Cocoa Puffs for after dinner. And -- hey scientists, how about focusing your magical brains on something else now? AIDS cure? Soap that smells like cole slaw?

Searching the city for sci-fi wasabi

I’ve often wondered what the two Japanese women of the acid jazz trip hop duo Cibo Matto were rapping about in the song “Sci-Fi Wasabi.” It always sounded like a bunch of nonsense, but now I think I understand.

Because
today at lunch
I tried

for the first time
after being warned many times: “They have a kick to ‘em.”

Wasabi peas.

You’re probably wondering, what does Japanese horseradish have to do with obscure Star Wars references? So much, my friend.

Remember the very last scene of "Men in Black?"  Planets are actually marbles. Take a look at wasabi peas… I think they’re actually planets. They look so much like a miniature and greener version of our majestic planet from space. Who wouldn’t want to eat tiny Earths?

And in case you’re not familiar, wasabi peas are dehydrated peas, flavored with wasabi, and coated with that ambiguous crunchiness signature to many a pre-packaged Japanese snack food.

It’s hot, it’s hot, it’s hot in here; there must be some chili in the atmosphere

Everyone seems to like their chili a very specific way. Soupy. Hot. On top of spaghetti. Covered in cheese. Without beans. Without tomatoes.

What’s wrong with these people?

I like my chili like I like my industrial waste. Thick and chunky. And I eat it cold. Yeah, I’m in the minority. But once I had a chili party and everyone thought my chili was damn good, even if they ate around the tomatoes or the beans.

My chili recipe that you probably won’t like:

Ingredients
Two yellow onions
Chopped garlic
Two large cans petite diced tomatoes
4 cans beans (any beans you want, really. Kidney, pinto, ambiguous “chili” beans)
Chili powder
Cayenne pepper
1-2 lbs ground beef
1 pkg peeled mini carrots
1 box adorable pasta (mini shells, mini bowties, etc)

1. Boil the carrots
2. Finely chop the onions. Prepare to cry.
3. Sautee onions with a few tablespoons of chopped garlic until brownish
4. Dump tomatoes, beans, and onion into large pot over a low heat. (Feel free to include natural juices. You’ll need them.)
5. Brown ground beef. Dump into pot.
6. Boil the pasta. Leave it al dente.
7. Drain pasta and carrots and dump into pot.
8. Add chopped garlic, chili powder and cayenne pepper to taste.

Tunasty?

All my life I've been forced to hide the fact that I love tuna fish. Only recently, I've been unpacking the reasons why.

1. it radiates an overwhelming stink, and lends itself to off-color hygiene jokes.

2. actually, that's the only reason.

I don't deny its stench. Because you have to throw it away outside or it permeates otherwise nicely smelling homes with fish odor. Because if any of the tuna's natural juice secretes into one's clothing or skin the diner smells like the fish. And because, in general, people dislike that smell. I've never seen a salmon perfume, after all.

What can I say? The protein-rich meat levels my blood sugar and provides the energy of a toddler.

But I will continue to blush when adult male family members say they never liked girls who smell like tuna. Oh my cod, I trout you know what that feels like.

The egg: he’s always been there for you. You just didn’t notice UNTIL NOW

An egg, to me, is like that dude in a “chick flick.” He’s the dorky less desirable guy that the heroine doesn’t realize is the perfect mate until the end. Like Mark Ruffalo in 13 Going on 30 or Colin Firth in Bridget Jone’s Diary or that guy from The Princess Diaries who’s name I can’t remember/never knew.

An egg doesn’t really stand out from the crowd or hold its own like a juicy steak or a pit fire roasted boar. And in all honesty it doesn’t make you mix tapes or provide emotional support either. However, what would breakfast be without the egg? A horrible, empty meal of despair they’d call despairfast. That’s what.

And without eggs, how would dinosaurs be born? And what would go on my fried egg sandwich? And deviled eggs. Are amazing. As a 7-year-old at large family holiday dinners everyone was reminded to get an egg before I ate them all.

I always regret not going with Egg to the prom. I turned him down because I was holding out for the most popular guy in school to ask me (a pit fire roasted boar). And as I sat on my stoop on prom night, covered in hairspray and sequins, and watched the popular kids drive by laughing in their limo, Egg was there.

I didn’t get to grind up on my classmates to Fat Joe’s “Lean Back,” but I had a mighty tasty omelet.

And if you’ve never seen this flash cartoon, omg you need to.

Two kinds of jerky

Editor's note: If you're a dude, this entry might make your brain explode.

Eating preserved meat is like having a friend that sells Mary Kay.

At first, eating the meat is as enjoyable and delicious-tasting as the Mary Kay "events" are fun and inviting.

But a couple dozen chews or minutes in, you want out.

Because you realize that the meat's tragic saltiness and pungent after-taste will linger on your tongue for hours, just as you realize the cosmetics distributor is OK with poking at your self-esteem to get inside your wallet.

More disturbingly, you realize the quality of the dehydrated meat is not unlike the character of the deeply powdered friend -- pretty low.

And before you know it, there you are: stuck with an unquenchable thirst, and 12-dollar plum lip gloss.

Dr. TastiBerry or how I learned to stop worrying and love elitist ice cream

Back in the 90's* Ben & Jerry's was pretty fancy. Skeptics questioned: Do we really need this many objects in our dessert? The people answered: Yes. And it was expensive at more than 5 bucks a pint. Today I can buy my fair share of Oatmeal Cookie Chunk and Chubby Hubby at the corner bodega in Queens. It's pretty accessible, still a little overpriced, but I think I can even swing a pint for less than a 5 spot nowadays.

Our obsession with ice cream toppings or "mix-ins" was furthered with the gimmicky Cold Stone Creamery. Proving that ice cream consumers like their already soft ice cream mashed up more by a stranger before consumption.

And then America decided it was hip to be healthy. And then I came to New York where private-school-produced-prissy-pants dragged me to hip low calorie! yogurt joints and I reluctantly dragged along the sidewalk willingly.

My first experience with this was Tasti-D-Lite. Health-wise, I get the impression it's like eating air or Tic Tacs. And they have a long list of crazy exotic flavors like White Russian and Marzipan.

I thought this froyo was pretty hoighty toighty, but oh man... it gets worse.

"Have you heard of Pinkberry?"
"Actually yes. From 'The Hills.'"

Tasti-D-Lite is NYC based and PinkBerry is LA. Analysts attribute this rift as a likely factor in the deaths of Tupac and the Notorious B.I.G.

This frozen dessert is quite controversial. I mentioned Pinkberry to a friend yesterday and he pronounced his distaste for the stuff using many an F word. My first Pinkberry was with coworkers who insisted I try it at lunch. They spoke of it as some kind of orgasmic low-calorie miracle cure for AIDS. My immediate reaction after eating it: That was my entire lunch?

And also, what is it? No one can tell you. I'm only reminded of a 1992 Saturday Night Live sketch, "That's Not Yogurt" with Victoria Jackson and Kevin Nealon. They don't know what they're eating, they only know it's not yogurt.

I hate to mention the elephant in the room but the name somehow sounds a little sexual. An informal G-chat survey proves I'm not the only one who thinks this.

*OK I know it was founded in 1978, but we're talking about the cultural zeitgeist and I'm only 23!

Love is like antioxidants

Dear Food Blog,
The media are yelling at me about how great antioxidants are. But, what are they?
-Curious

Dear Curious,
Antioxidants are the new terrorism. It’s just a fancy buzzword for what we used to call things like Vitamin C. Or, if we get down on our hands and knees and examine the etymology of the word, we see that it says "anti" – against, and "oxidant" – oxidation or exposure to oxygen. So apparently we want to eat things that prevent oxidation. Why? Well just look at what happened to Lady Liberty. Years of oxidation have made her green and crusty.

Love,
The floggers


Do you have a food question? Email us! thisisafoodblog@gmail.com

Let’s get saucy!

Condiments have an explicit function as defined by society’s strict expectations—used sparingly as a compliment to food for spreading, dipping, dashing, squirting, etc. And NEVER eaten alone. We all know the “proper” way to eat condiments, but how many people break the rules?

Do you suck on ketchup packets like they’re full of sweet nectar? Do you ladle nacho cheese directly onto your cat? Do you fill a kiddie pool with ranch dressing and have an ultimate wrestling showdown? Tell us about it! Please!

The Food Blog wants to know: What’s your condiment guilty pleasure?

I’ll tell you my hedonistic condiment eating ritual. I dump some chocolate chips into a cup and eat them with a peanut butter-covered spoon. I also vaguely recall, maybe kinda, sorta squirting smiley faces of whipped cream onto the floor and having my dog lick them up.

And Michelle eats sticks of butter.

Jamaican me hungry

I think it’s high time we took pause for a moment to think about something that’s really been on my heart and mind recently—Jamaican meat pies.

I’m always a little ashamed of my strolls down the frozen food aisle. They say that, when shopping, you should stay around the edge of the grocery store in the produce and deli sections, avoiding the processed foods. But we live in this modern age of pre prepped food; it would be a slap in the face to progress if I ignored that and prepared meals from scratch. Plus I’m lazy.

I admit a lot of the stuff you find in the frozen section is frightening and/or over priced. I usually just come away with large amounts of bagel bites and edamame. But in an attempt to branch out I discovered frozen Jamaican meat pies from a company called Tower Isle, apparently “a leading mass producer of Jamaican patties,” according to Gabriella Gershenson of the New York Press.

These delicious little golden crescents are fabulous. The crusts are flaky and the meat tastes real and not pretend. When you bite into one, out comes a puff of steam and the faint sound of reggae. Gimme that blood clot beef turnover!

With the exception of hot pockets, my experience with entrapped meat has been generally positive.

Are you a good witch or a sandwich?

Dear Food Blog,

How do you make the perfect sandwich?

-The Sand Witch


Dear Sand Witch,

The art of making the perfect sandwich is really an act of self love. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sandwiches have been the talk of the nation since Esquire published its article on The Best Sandwiches in America. (And those sandwiches were subsequently served in the Hearst cafeteria this week.)

A lot of people err in making the right sandwich by just slapping things onto bread and hoping for the best. American cheese, abusive relationships, cocaine—none of this belongs on a sandwich, stupid.

When you start respecting yourself, then, and only then can you make a sandwich that’s truly delicious and satisfying. Fresh, soft whole grain honey white bread, turkey, swiss, dijon mustard, tomatoes, pepper, and a drop of vinegar—these items make one sweet, forbidden symphony of a sandwich.

Also, please release Princess Sparkle from your sandy, dessert lair.

Love,
The Food Bloggers

Do you have a question about food? Email us! thisisafoodblog@gmail.com

Banana fanna fo fug, me my mo mug-- Doug!

Secrets out! My name rhymes with banana, a delicious, phallic fruit. Point being-- sometimes people's names remind us of food. An anonymous source told me she corresponds with a man named Doug. Every time she sees his name, she associates it with dough and consequently thinks, "Mmm cookie dough." I passed along the brilliant suggestion-- start calling him Cookie Doug. To his face. She politely declined.

Turn your head and coffee

I'm so overly caffeinated right now I'm not even sure I can create a coherent blog entry. I feel so ashamed that I obviously learned nothing from arguably the most memorable and intense episode of Saved by the Bell: Jessie's "I'm so excited, I'm so excited, I'm so so scared" caffeine addiction. I am a recovering caffeine addict myself. I started drinking coffee when I was in second grade. I guess that seems kind of young, but my parents really like coffee and took me on tours of coffee farms so it just kind of happened. It's not like it was always LSD and orgies. But just a quick glance at a maybe/maybe not credible Wikipedia entry on caffeine makes caffeine look real scary.

I'm led to believe that a huge percentage of the population drinks coffee every morning. I'm also led to believe (by Wikipedia) that millions of coffee drinkers have been enslaved by a horrible demon who haunts their dreams every night with images of pure evil. This, I try to avoid. But on the train this morning, during the most intense Willy-Wonky-scary-boat-ride-esque segment of the N/W line between Queensboro Plaza and Lexington Avenue, everyone on the train had coffee and it smelled so good. I had to have it. And then there are the bonus perks-- with Starbucks in hand everyone could see that I was A) very important and B) in a hurry. But I regret this decision now as my heartbeat is faster than that of a pancake at a lumberjack convention, if pancakes had hearts and the ability to feel fear. And I'm running around the office with a toy fire truck asking everyone to play with me while throwing Cheerios. Here's to cautionary examples.

Happy Birthdanna, Joanna

It is indeed Joanna's seventh birthday. To celebrate her many years of social anxiety and unrestrained charm, I've scoured our food blog to present some of her most useful observations of food.


-No matter how delicious or precious the food/drink you are consuming may seem, licking it off the steering wheel while driving is always a bad idea.

-It’s always good to have some American cheese on hand just in case you need it, like a first aid kit. In fact, you should keep American cheese in your first aid kit.

-If you’re that worried about food contaminates, perhaps it’s time to purchase a hybrid car and hold free yoga classes inside of it for all the members of your farming commune.

-There simply isn't enough tryptophan in the turkey you ate for you to feel a drowsy effect. What you're experiencing is the drowsiness that comes from stuffing your face.

-Pour yourself a glass of half & half, add some ice cubes (or crushed if you prefer), and I assume you’ve made ice cream.

-If you’re craving something a toddler would eat, just ignore it. And go ingest something that a toddler doesn’t eat. Like strained peas or some scotch.


Joanna, these suggestions are 67 percent of the reason I love you, and the reason I would marry you if it were legal and if even the slightest whiff of sexual attraction existed between you and I.

Happy day of birth!