Posted by: foodtalker | January 8, 2011

all for one

As one of three I was taught to share.  But that meant toys, and Mum’s attention.  Not food. 

Only a glutton or a fool would attempt to steal a french fry in my family when everyone at the table is armed with a four pronged gig.

But now there’s a new trend in the dining industry.  Sharing of a different dimension is all the rage.   What used to be known as a side dish is now considered an entrée, and what’s mine is yours too and considered as ours – even if I was the one who ordered it. 

We are being asked to digest an entire menu of overpriced appetizers.  Or, put somewhat more appetizingly: an assortment of expensive snacks for general consumption, masquerading as a “tasting menu”, which means that the portions are smaller but somehow the smaller plates cost the same as the larger ones and there are communal forks.  Huh?  Or rather, duh.

Sharing a dessert with friends used to be rather a chummy thing to do.  A gesture that forged a bond at the end of the evening, but now the whole meal is up for grabs. 

Less is more is a really great idea unless you’re hungry.  I understand the Bauhaus vision, but sometimes, when it comes to food, more ain’t that bad.

Besides, sharing food is stressful.  Before the food arrives there’s an obligation to make a mutual decision about what to order.  It takes a caucus to place an order, a second mortgage to pay for it and a prolonged period of extreme anxiety wondering if there’ll be enough.   It all gives me indigestion before the first bite arrives.

When tapas bars started to flourish I much preferred to use them in the correct style as providers of a civilized personal snack to go with a beer or sherry.  Ordering everything off the menu as some gigantic spread for everyone to tuck into makes me exhausted.  Anyway, the tortilla, well actually, I want that all to myself.

My sharing phobia is not even hygiene related – I know there’s a lot of handling that goes on in the kitchen.  Nor am I a war baby brought up with a ration-book appetite and an over active conscience.  My parents didn’t withhold food as a punishment or reward me with treats.  It’s just that it requires too much subtle spoon jostling over who gets the extra drizzle of sauce and then latent aggressions come out over a single pea pod.  Wars begin over stuff like this.

My friend Juliet is convinced they mess with you.  “Have you noticed if there’s four people, they’ll give you five pieces?  Or worse, only three?  And if there’s three people, they’ll give you four?   It’s like Survivor: The Restaurant.” 

Then that one last bite left on the plate gets cleared away because no one wants to be labeled the pig who eats it.  That’s 20% of the bill right there and the kitchen considers it a coup de fork.

Menu cherry-picking isn’t fun.  I’m forced to fill up on cherries picked by others when I’d rather just gorge on my own selections.  I’ve noticed my dogs don’t share.  So maybe next time this becomes an issue, I’ll just growl.

Posted by: foodtalker | December 18, 2010

loud and clear

What is it with people who have loud voices? 

People with spatial unawareness will bump into a lamppost.  But somehow people who lack volume awareness have no such impediments.  They just keep on yelling and the rest of us have to suffer – often in silence.

It’s one thing if you are in the cinema and the movie’s showing.  Everyone feels justified doing the “ssshh” thing.  There’s a kind of heroic status that goes with that.  But what about at a restaurant?  It’s so not cool shushing someone sitting at the next table.  

But sometimes two-tops are squeezed so tightly together you may as well be at one big communal table with everyone stretching, reaching, grabbing, chewing and shouting. There’s no combobulation and, as my mother would say, it’s just like the Irish Houses of Parliament – everyone’s talking and no one’s listening.  Except in this case they’re all shouting. 

They’re shouting, but sadly not to make an emphatic point or because anyone is hard of hearing, it’s just that they are loud.

When I eat out, one of the first things I do is try to scope the occupants at the next table to see if they look like they’re going to be the volume uncontrolled types. 

If it’s a large table with more than three people, it’s a bad sign.  Recently I was having sushi with a friend and a couple sat down at the empty table next to us.

Immediately, the woman started a running commentary – first about her work day, then about the restaurant décor, then about the food – projecting as if she was on stage at the National.   “Fishy”, she screamed, “tastes fishy”, she yelled at her dinner partner.  He wasn’t seated across the street so why was she shouting?  Hers was hardly a profound observation anyway. 

Then last week I was at my hairdressers where I knew I’d be trapped for a three hour ordeal.  It’s hard enough to sit still that long without going into orbit. 

After a long selection and elimination process, I’ve found a wonderful hairdresser who doesn’t require small talk.  We can while away three hours in simple silence.  There are occasional questions “you like the color?”, “another coffee?” “should I take more off?”, but other than that we nod and beam at each other over the soothing hum of the dryer.  It’s almost relaxing.

But ten peaceful minutes into my appointment last week I heard someone over the partition request a glass of white wine.  “Hell, I’m gonna be here for a couple of hours”, she shouted, “it’s cocktail hour somewhere”.

Twenty minutes later after having tried really hard to read my book and not listen to all the problems of her children, her daughter’s dilemma with parking permits for a boyfriend in downtown Charleston, what she was fixing for dinner, who was getting what for Christmas and references to this person and that person, I was really sorry I’d left my stun gun at home.  

Listening, once removed, to someone else’s inane conversation is my version of water boarding.  There’s really no good way to say to people “can you lower your voice”.  Or how about “shut up” as a last resort?  If I were to say something like that then I know exactly what would happen.  Suddenly I’d be the rude one.

What I need is a little mute button on the side of my head that when switched on will block all outside noise.  The only problem is – then I’ll be forced to listen to the voices in my head.

Posted by: foodtalker | December 4, 2010

food fights

I’ve had a sandwich thrown at me.  Fortunately it was an egg salad sandwich, so when it struck,  only my dignity was bruised.   But that’s the food business for you.  It’s unpredictlable,  Hungry people have agendas and flashpoint tempers.  

The thrower was a female customer who, having run out of patience waiting in line to pay for her lunch, decided to hurl it at me instead. 

This happened years ago when I had a gourmet food shop.  I was working the counter and had been trapped in a conversation at the check out.  The queue had started to grow.   Dressed in jeans and looking like any other chit of a deli girl, I didn’t have OWNER pulsating obviously in neon lights over my head.  But then maybe that wouldn’t have mattered. 

I’ve been summoned with a “Hey, Miss”, at posh parties I’ve caterer only to be unceremoniously handed a dozen shrimp tails and then expected to wait around whilst the same guest finished gnawing on a chicken wing  to then gift me the bone. 

People have walked into my restaurant and demanded a table.  The fact that every table in the house was filled and all the bar stools taken too, never seemed to faze them.  They just expected me to make one appear.  They’re not amused when I tell them it’s the food, not the magic business that I’m in.  

But after 30 years of being a caterer I’ve found lots of people have expected me to produce things out of thin air.  Like chairs, when more people show up, another six tier wedding cake when the one they have keels over,  or ice when they didn’t order enough.   And I’ve been asked countless times to do something about the weather.  It’s all very challenging. 

Then there’s something about being a waiter that says “dogsbody”.   Like those signs  pinned on your back that say ‘kick me’.   Hated by the kitchen workers, often treated with indifference by the customers, it’s a wretched way to make a buck.  I’ve had a client refer to my staff as “scullery maids” and suggest we all be frisked before leaving her party in case someone pinched a teaspoon or such from the family silver service. 

Then there are those who consider food service workers as a totally invisible species.  The worst are on-call doctors at parties.  Looking for a quiet and private space to return an emergency page, they invariably wind up in the kitchen.    Oblivious that the space is in actuality filled with busy workers feverishly replenishing platters, making sandwiches, elbow deep in chicken salad, arranging garnishes and slicing tenderloin, they proceed to discuss body parts, bodily functions, what’s been discharged and from which orifice, bowel movements, blood, bile, phlegm, and green and yellow stuff.   Patient privacy isn’t an issue in a kitchen. 

So, I’ve decided that in future instead of military service there should be compulsory national food service.  Everyone has to do an obligatory six months at the very least.  No pulling rank and no conscientious objectors.  On what grounds anyway?  Everyone eats.  Woosies and vegans would have to wash dishes.   It would be very humbling and humanizing.  Instead of polishing guns and boots all day, they could polish silverware.  So much more practical in the long run.

Posted by: foodtalker | November 27, 2010

daily prayer

I have this one fear.  Actually it’s more of a paralyzing terror.   That I’ll live long enough to become an old biddy.  Aging isn’t the issue, it’s the “biddy” bit that bothers me.  That’s a whole different classification.  Not just old, but old and a biddy.  

There’s a group of them at my church.  They collect in the front four pews on the left.  All women of course, with the exception of the odd lone medically challenged male who’s there oblivious and toughing it out with his old biddy wife.  That worries me.  Not just widows qualify. 

Of course, they’re the stalwarts of the congregation.  They’re a kindly bunch.  They’re into crafts.  They knit, make Christmas ornaments and weave baskets.  They fix sandwiches, stuff envelopes and coo over the newborns.  They get together and make things all the time.  They’re into pot lucks and look forward to the monthly Golden Age dinners in the community hall.  They all look alike, dress the same and have identical hairdos.  They have seasonal sweaters.  They smile and wave at me on Sundays, (or are they beckoning?) from across the aisle. 

Maybe I worry needlessly.  But, I mean, I just don’t think Jackie O would ever have crossed the line into old biddidom. 

I asked my friend Lisa what her biggest fear was.  Seems she’s on another plane to me.  She’s worried that the waist line on designer jeans will go even lower.   Not a good look with a muffin top she said.  

Janie however spends hours fretting about losing her hair.  Not just to the point where it begins to thin or even recede but when having lost so much standing in the light it’s possible to see straight through to a pink scalp.  Teasing for volume won’t help at that stage, she knows that.  She’s already gulping down Rogaine by the bottleful.    

I didn’t bother questioning any of my men friends, as we know they all have the same universal anxiety.  They might try to be original but I’d know they were faking it.  And anyway, unlike baldness that offers alternatives of hats and wigs, there’s really only a pill for their problem, and salty at that.   

But I did ask my fourteen year old nephew what fears he had about getting old.   He sort of blew me off and said, “Aunt Kate, I don’t have any morbid thoughts.”  But when coaxed he admited he’d worried about drowning in the bath tub and being found naked.  A bit like being in a car accident and taken to hospital wearing less than pristine underwear, I suppose.   The word “naked” was written all in capitals so I’d be sure not to miss the crux of his concern.  It didn’t seem to matter that the real tragedy was he’d drowned.

Last Sunday I noticed Maria, a friend who used to sit in the back of church.  It seemed she’d made the slide and joined ranks with the old biddies.  I wonder if she’ll soon be looking to recruit me?  It doesn’t seem to be a reversible status.  There isn’t an identity trial period.  An opportunity to try it on for size and fit.   They never seem to return to their former pews.

So now, along with other prayers  I’ve added my silent supplication: please, please God name your price, but spare me the fate of old biddidom.

Posted by: foodtalker | November 22, 2010

hard work

It’s always said that nothing in life is worth having unless you’ve worked hard for it.  Hard work pays off in the future, laziness pays off now.  Except when it comes to relationships.   Or more specifically, relationships involving a woman with a strong personality. 

The other day I was having a coffee with a friend who was recounting the details about a failed relationship.  He was going over it, trying to figure out what went wrong, and why, even though he loved her, it just wasn’t going to work and he couldn’t be with her. 

I found myself swept along with the story and feeling moderately sympathetic.  Right up until he reached his summation.  She was, he said: “Too much like hard work.”

What does that mean; hard work?  It sounded like a putdown.  A personality flaw.  Why aren’t there built-in indicators of worthiness and reward along with the expended effort required?   If hard work pays off there would have to be some parity.

I wondered what trajectory catapults someone into this undesirable category.   A category that wipes out all other redeeming features.  And once you’re in it, there’s no escape.  The more you insist on a re-evaluation to prove you don’t belong in this category the more it re-enforces that you indeed do.  

I felt badly for this woman I’d never met.  I wanted to call her up and tell her to keep moving forward – quickly – and never once look back.  And then just as I was about to muster some words in her defense, my friend said: “Well, you of all people should know what I mean.”

Now I was really confused.  Was he suggesting I could relate to what he was saying because I had been in relationships with men who were hard work?  Or, did he mean I could relate to the situation because I have “hard work” stamped all over me?  And anyway, I was beginning to feel defensive.  What’s hard work for one person is surely enticing for another.

“Come on,” he said, “You know you’re not the easiest person to be in a relationship with.”  I started to mutter about benefits.  But how would he know?  We’ve never even dated.  “You think I’m hard work?” I asked.  I was trying my best to sound meek.  He gave me the look that an airline employee gives a passenger who has just learned that they don’t qualify for the upgrade they expect and is trying to argue there’s been a  mistake.  

He said: “You’re a Virgo.  Critical, judgmental and a perfectionist.  Think that makes for a walk in a moonlit park?” 

But what’s wrong with that?  I know I’m detail oriented, have high standards and expect others to measure up to the moment.  But therein lies the problem.  Everyone has their own definition of what constitutes hard work and integrity.  What some people see as a headache, others see as an issue.  What some see as discretion, others see as deception. 

If something is bothering me, I tend not to keep it inside.  This might not always be the best way to go.  Nothing says hard work more than a woman who starts a conversation with: “Can I ask you a question?”

Posted by: foodtalker | November 13, 2010

lose lose

There are some days I just don’t want to be seen.  Those are the days I feel fat, old, ugly and out of sorts.  The only problem is I have little control over their scheduling.  They just seem to occur at random.  I can go to bed feeling thin, youthful, and upbeat only to undergo some evil metamorphosis in the night and wake up quite the hag from hell.

Sometimes, to make myself feel better, I’ll think of a random celebrity.  Charlotte Rampling for instance.  I’ve always wanted to be her.  I’ve seen pictures of her in a ratty crumpled raincoat, no make-up, hair unbrushed, big dark glasses, looking grumpy and I can tell she’s been caught on a day when she’s not wanting to be seen.  I empathise because the last thing I’d want is someone taking my photograph and having it end up in a magazine for all the world to see.  But the empathy doesn’t last long.  Because I only wish I looked like her on her worst day.  She still manages to look outrageously sexy in a rubbish mackintosh.  And anyway, if she’s unhappy about it she can always go to her pad in Paris and soak in a tub of money. 

Some days my feelings aren’t imaginary.  For example earlier this week I had extensive dental work done – a three hour session being used as a dart board for Novocain.  The next several days I truly looked like some character from The Planet of the Apes, and it wasn’t that pretty girl playing opposite Charlton Heston.  

The only thing worse than running into someone when I don’t want to be seen, is being seen by someone without knowing it.  Yesterday I got home and there was a message on my answering machine from a friend.

“I saw you,” he said, “downtown on Main”. 

I called him back.  “Why didn’t you say hello?”  I asked.  He told me he was running late for a meeting.  No doubt.  But I had a more pressing issue to raise.  I was worried he’d seen me on one of my ape lookalike days.  So I asked:  “What was I wearing?” 

He told me I was all in black.  A colour that had seemed fitting earlier that day.  I felt myself sinking.  But confident that my outfit was sufficiently generic I did the only rational thing I could think of.  I lied.  “That wasn’t me,” I said. 

He was silent.  “Really?  It looked just like you.” 

“Nope,” I said, “I don’t think so.”  “Really?” he repeated.  “You weren’t head down with your collar turned up racing down Main Street yesterday?” 

Racing? No, that couldn’t possibly have been me I told him. 

“Really?” he said for the third time.  “Are you sure?”  I replied: “Yes, I’m sure.”  Now I was beginning to get irritated.  He sounded like he didn’t believe me or something. 

“Where were you?” I asked.  He said he was across the street.  I pointed out that in which case he probably wasn’t near enough to get a good look, especially as the person was “racing”.  Finally, after a few minutes spent convincing him that it was a case of mistaken identity, he capitulated.  Then he said: “Well, whoever it was, she looked really pretty.  But I guess it wasn’t you.”

Posted by: foodtalker | November 6, 2010

under instruction

My friend Suzie has just begun a new relationship. 

But ever since the initial coffee at Starbucks he’s been writing and texting several times a day to say how he really likes her.  It’s making her suspicious and anxious.  She wants to know how can he already be making such bold declarations.  Is she not more complex?  I told her that he’s a bit like those people who, with barely one foot over the threshold, start gushing that your house is darling.  It’s just a reaction of enthusiasm with no basis in realism – but that’s me trying to be kind.

She’s not used to someone being so immediate – in fact she finds it a turn off.  She said she wishes he would wait to text her until after 7pm.  Then she could spend the whole day in a state of emotional turmoil and suspense wondering if he’d changed his mind.   Confirmation that he hadn’t would then be a huge aphrodisiac. 

None of this is a problem for me.  No one ever tells me they like me, or if they do, it’s not at the front end of the relationship, but at the end as a sort of consolation prize, when they are eager to assure me that they still really really like me.

Wouldn’t it be great if men came with operating instructions to maximize their performance and shelf life?

For instance, the instructions with a recent dalliance would have read: 

Warning: Narcissistic personality.  Don’t expect any attention unless it creates an additional self reflective glow.  Don’t take it personally. Pay homage. Worship and amuse.  It’s not about you. 

Emotional conditions may render appliance subject to regular periods of attempted over achievement that might result in either malfunction or equipment failure. Some parts are old and rusty.  Patience and selflessness are a prerequisite.  Keep up the strokes and assurances.  It’s not about you.     

Best used in short bursts over limited periods of time due to external attention deficit disorder.  Remember, it’s not about you.  It will never be about you.  Anticipate zero return for efforts made.      

And then the warranty would have a long list of what’s not covered including sincerity, honesty, generousity, accountability, magnanimity, or culpability.  And of course any out of pocket expenses or repair costs will not be refunded.  

My friend Rachael’s operating instructions would read like this: 

“Congratulations on your new purchase.  Take me home and I am yours forever”. 

But my own would be more complex:  

Unfortunately this machine’s original instructions were misplaced during manufacture so you’ll just have to figure it out as you go along.  Look for pop-ups that might offer occasional clues and options.  However, these are short lived and must be activated.  If all else fails, opt for end task, wait a day or two and then reload.  24-hour help might be available if you have the right phone numbers.  The wrong choices can cause a total system crash.  Sometimes the damage is irreparable.  Keep your receipt. 

But the only problem with an instruction manual is it’s best read before installation not afterwards.

Posted by: foodtalker | September 5, 2010

the breast stroke

When I was a child in the sixties the bathing suit for the developed figure was boned, trussed and reinforced.  Not so much sewn as engineered.  The built in cups were pointy, and it really didn’t matter much if you filled them or not.  They were constructed to hold you back and uplift the content.  They did a good job and managed to defy the elements of water.  Although for those who lacked the essential physical filling factor, the lining could sometimes float out and create an embarrassing moment. 

Today the stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure carved from a potato chip. 

Now, as a child of the sixties approaching my own sixties I have a choice.  I can either go to the maternity department and try on a floral suit with a “modesty” skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotamus who escaped from Disney’s Fantasia or I can wander around every run of the mill department store trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of fluorescent rubber bands. 

As I am not yet ready to throw in the beach towel, I wandered around, made the sensible choice and entered the chamber of horrors aka the fitting room.

 The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material.  The Lycra used in bathing costumes developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, give the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks as any shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff or other bulges would immediately suffer whiplash. 

Fighting my way into the bathing suit and twanging the shoulder strap into place, I noticed with horror that my chest had disappeared.  Eventually after some contortions, I found one flattened breast cowering under my armpit.  It took a while to locate the other.  It had taken shelter beside my seventh rib. 

The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups.  The mature woman is meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed bump. 

It’s possible to find a bathing suit, but unfortunately it fits only those bits that are prepared to stay inside.  Everything else oozes out rebelliously from top, bottom and sides.  I felt like a lump of play dough wearing undersized cling wrap, a line of masking tape, or an oversized napkin in a serving ring. 

I played pretend and struggled into a leopard skin number, thinking I could pass as Jane.  Tried on a frilly black combination and looked like a jellyfish in mourning.

Finally I found a suit that fit … a two piece affair with a shorts-style bottom and a loose blouson type top.  But when I got home the label read “material might become transparent in water”. . . . 

So when recently there was a chance to debut this matronly outfit, I played coy and begged a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt.  I was encouraged to know that I was still able to swim the breast stroke.

Posted by: foodtalker | August 7, 2010

humans apeing humans

It’s hard to believe what some people do for a living or even how they find their jobs.  For example, last week I read an article about a highly regarded Canadian scientist and psychology professor who makes her daily crust measuring levels of male and female sexual arousal.  Now where is this position to be found in the classifieds? 

In order to do this, one of the study phases involves showing groups of us regular humans, whilst hooked up to some sophisticated “sexometer”, (attached or inserted as appropriate), film footage of bonobo apes in the act of mating.  Primate erotica.   This is definitely a professional option that never had an information booth at any of the career fairs they offered when I went to school.  

Frustratingly though, it seems that bonobos are somewhat silent during sex.  The females make sort of a chirpy little sound and “appear” to give a pleasure grin, but other than that, the accompanying sounds are rather dull.  So much so, that for the purposes of human application it’s been necessary to dub into the video some animated chimpanzee hootings and screechings to spice things up.   We apparently need accompanying noises to be stimulated and convinced. 

But, maybe instead of enlightening ourselves we should learn from this charming endangered species of pygmy chimpanzees where the females run the show, and they’ve figured out a way to live without violence.  In tense situations, rather than fight over food, they refer to the kama sutra and then afterwards are inclined and quite happy to share their banana.    

Another unique niche vocation has been found by a group of gerontologist researchers in Germany, and I’m pretty sure I never saw any literature on this either when considering my future path.  

In their attempt to discover groundbreaking practices for increasing a healthy life expectancy, they’ve been staring at women’s breasts for five years.  Well, I am presuming not nonstop.   The study involved 200 healthy men who “volunteered”.  Half of this group was instructed to carry on as usual and ogle women’s breasts on a daily basis whilst the other half were told to refrain from doing so.  Bummer if you pulled the short straw.  Five years!  I wonder if they kept any data on those who cheated? 

Surprisingly, the study closed concluding that gawking at women’s breasts is a healthy practice.  That men who stared at the breasts of females on a regular basis exhibited lower blood pressure and therefore reduced the likelihood of any coronary artery disease.  Apparently just ten minutes of staring at the charms of a well-endowed female is roughly the equivalent to a  30-minute aerobics work-out.  So save yourself the sweat and the cardio exertions is my thought, and enjoy these health benefits from the comfort of your La-Z-Boy at home.   

The study went on to recommend that men over 40 needed to gaze at larger breasts daily for ten minutes in order to experience the same health benefits.  There weren’t any implementation suggestions though, so maybe a new career path has opened up, as ten minutes of boob staring for most women is a little over the top when it comes to tolerance.  

But then again, who knows, in the light of these seminal discoveries, we might find it in our hearts to be a little less critical of the fascination.  And men, of course, now have the perfect excuse.

Posted by: foodtalker | July 28, 2010

food fads and foolishness

There was a time when I could go to the grocery, load up, check out and be home within thirty minutes.   I used to buy a carton of eggs and the only thing to worry about was whether or not one was broken.  Sometimes I wouldn’t even bother to check, playing Russian roulette with the odds.

I’ve always been funny about eggs.  Any way they’re fixed they have to wind up rigid. Nothing runny or wobbly.  No white stuff separated from the yellow stuff.  I don’t like getting too involved with them.   But today buying eggs requires a master’s degree.  Are they organic?  Are they cage-free?  Was the hen a happy hen?  The other day I purchased a carton of eggs and there was a pamphlet inside.  It began “Dear Egg Buyer”.    Now they are looking to establish a personal relationship with me.  There was so much information about the eggs and the hens and the farm they came from it was overwhelming.  Their sunlit accommodations seemed superior to mine.

At some point along the way the farming industry has made it mandatory to reveal every detail of life from farm to table.  It’s no longer about how nutritious the food is, but where it came from, how it reaches us, and who grew it with a photo on the packaging of the farmer and his family all grinning and looking extremely healthy. Food can’t simply be tasty; it has to have additional qualities to make it irresistible.  It has to have healing powers, medicinal benefits, prevent wrinkles, break down fat and prolong life.

So now when I am having a yogurt, I’m not just having lunch.  I’m regulating my digestion and supporting my immune system.  There’s an adorable cow in a sunny verdant pasture on the side of the cup incase I need a clue about the origins of my meal.  It’s important that I feel more intimately connected to the source of my probiotics.

Whole food groups have been rearranged according to their health merits.  Take the blueberry, for example.  A blueberry is no longer one in the general rank of berries, but has been escalated to the top of the berry ladder, heralded as a wonder berry.  With this omnipotent status, why buy a mere raspberry that apparently has no magic capabilities? 

Then there’s acai, which no one had every heard of several years ago.  Now if you don’t have it daily in one form or another, no telling what will happen to you.  It pales the blueberry.

Suddenly it’s okay to eat mountains of avocadoes – they are loaded with amino acids and good for my skin.  Nuts reduce signs of aging too, so I can eat a bucket of cashews.  Dark chocolate is my all time favourite superfood, it lowers blood pressure, so no need to feel guilty there, I can eat the whole bar.  The only problem being that as I cheerfully hoover up my essential superfoods, the one visible change so far has been on the bathroom scales.

I understand the locally sourced movement, but I don’t always trust it.  To be sure of food origins requires buying in person from the farmer who brings his product to market, otherwise it’s just a label that can all too easily be slapped on something to catch the wave and con the public into paying $4.00 for one heirloom tomato.  For some people that’s their food budget for a whole meal.

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