Let’s talk about precious food.
I don’t mean this in the "oh I fucking luv, luv, luv food cause I'm a foodie!,"kind of way; I mean this in the "let’s cure our own organic, grass-fed beef!" and "the cow was raised on a small farm in Vermont and had its own upholstered sofa to sleep on!" kinda way.
I cannot pick up a free copy of Edible Brooklyn without feeling slightly awed and intimidated. The photography is gorgeous and the stories of local gastronimic adventures seem heartfelt enough. And yet, oddly, I often finish reading that thing feeling like I want to poke the eyes out of the hip, slightly dirty/attractive BK dude talking about cooking only with seasonal, locally sourced ingredients, or the post-recession entrepreneur who's hanging salamis to dry in their cruddy Williamsburg bathroom and selling them on the internet. Or worse yet, the in depth play-by-play of the breaking down of an entire fucking whole hog in the back room of a restaurant (!?).
Here's the thing: I do not want to know this much about the food I eat. It's TMI!
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parowpyro | 
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