Get invited to supper clubs and surrealist events.
The first piece is oddly mild, creamy milk chocolate oversweetened by the fine grit of coconut sugar. I wolf down the rest. It’s not until we hit the bridge that something begins to feel wrong.
Native American myths say we are made of corn. Today, by all measures, we are.
The story of the grape is a story of thirst for blood, wine, and water. Just as we drink from grapes, they drink from us.
You stop at a Taco Bell. You don’t stay there. When you are between meals, between waking and sleeping, between high and sober, Taco Bell provides extraplanar respite. Wherever you travel, those paper sack provisions always make it through customs.
A good meal is your neighborhood dog, friend to all, easy to find and happy to see you. But a great meal is the fox you’ve glimpsed at a distance who decides for the first and only time to come sit next to you as you watch the sun set.
This is one such meal.
If you’re going to the trouble of taking the truss rod out, you may find yourself with a real mess of a neck, twisted or even fractured, unfit for plating. In such cases it is still good for a stew, and the fingerboard can often still be preserved separately.
I feel the crawling acid of pineapple nectar, that chemical that eats you back. Citric acid right up front, thin and bright. The pucker tapers quickly, then withholds. This love-bombing is textbook avoidant behavior. It tempts me not to lick and suck, but to destroy.
My tendency is not to overindulge, but to eat so little as to disappear entirely. So I lean on the Frenchman twice over, ingesting not just his words, but the food that bears his name: a cheese.
Cap’n Crunch throws his hands in the air. He gazes at the object of his pathological excitement, a bowl of popcorn envlivened with green and red crunchberries. it is the very definition of a mixed bag.
When your nose is all stopped up, nothing clears things out than a good cry. Sniff and sob with greater meaning as you see fashion CEO Yoon Se-ri confessing to her stoic captain that just once, she wanted to be the one to protect him instead.
Nerds Candy Corn is a conceptual train wreck. Halloween no longer points back to the harvest. It points back to itself, a combination of nostalgia loops and novelty arms races.
Eating a Triscuit is like eating a snare drum solo: a single note, repeated over and over in endless varieties of timing and intensity. This rhythm, this rudimentary paradiddle, is the heart of its enduring crunch.
This slice is not a typical Cali cut. It's got character, but it's not trying to impress. It's just doing its job, another grind in the service industry, sweaty but unstressed. Carry on, brother.
A refuge of the desperate, identical in all cities, all places, tonight's dinner is grocery store sushi. Chewy rice, pitifully sparse sesame seeds, and uncomfortably packed tuna and avocado set a grim table. But soy sauce coaxes out the breathy nip of rice vinegar, enlivening every bite with salt and sour, turning cold rations into a meal.
In the long wake of the Cup, the Pieces were born. Why, with Cup in hand, H.B. Reese chose to fracture and reforge its peanut heart, we will never know. The results are as cruel as they are delicious.
The risotto gave the impression of a bold older aunt, a swashbuckling world traveller with a power-clash eclectic style, wielding heavy accent and chunky jewelry with the unselfconscious originality only age can earn. She broke the mold while young, and it's only now that the rest of the world is catching up to her. On anyone else this look would be a costume, but she wears it as easily as a smile.
The heart of a lettuce is all crunch, and iceberg lettuce is all heart.
