It seems like there's finally an end to the dreariness for us introverted extremists who keep frozen veggie chix patties in our freezers all the live long day. This is good because those things were like forgotten glue you didn't fry them up in a frying pan with olive oil or something, and if I had a pan and olive oil, why would I make a chick patty? I'll be honest, I'm such a crazy dude these days I can't even get it together to get a plate and a pan and the oil in one room on the same day. I'm busy. I'm a city-livn' son of a gun. I just put the veggie burger on a plate and microwave it (uncovered) for 90 seconds, then put some mustard on it and eat it like a pie, or a small thin round meatloaf. In other words, I don't pick it up at all. I use the fork to cut it and then left it to my mouth, tenderly, I don't even get hummus anymore, because it goes bad all the time before I can finish it.
All the other bloggers on this site praise the lastest breakthrough in food porn technology and I'm all for that, but for me food isn't porn, it's a drug, it's a consciousness raising tool. It helps ease the panic attacks and keeps the world in focus. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy instead of disoriented and hostile. I like it in small doses, in bar sizes, in easy to prepare portions. I'd be right at home in a future like the one portrayed in Soylent Green, or with K-rations like Saving Private Ryan. The spreads in films like Babette's Feast cause me anxiety, as if I'm going to end up being the one who does all the dishes, or worse-- made to feel guilty the whole ride home by my mom, "That nice French lady made that huge feast and killed a sea turtle and evrything and you couldn't even volunteer to do the dishes." Such guilt! Who needs it?
Continue reading A diatribe on soy chicken patties