Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts

Bring on the Bronco Burgers

So cheap burger patties are part horsemeat.

It was kind of a non-story. 

Surely we all know that any  kind of processed meat product is just a bunch of animals indiscriminately lined up and shoved into a mincing machine.

I mean, hellooo, have you seen polony? Remove the ‘l’ and an ‘o’ and there you have it.

Polony. Pony. Polony. Pony.

And the thought still doesn't disgust me as much as the thought of a McDonald’s Fillet ‘o Fish.

I’m not sure what I find so repulsive about the Fillet ‘o Fish (I've never tried one) but I suspect it’s the unnatural square shape. It doesn't make sense as I've seen the chicken burgers and I still eat those by the dozen. Yum!

But horse isn’t so bad. The French eat ‘em. It’s not panda or rhino meat. It’s not KFC.

From a humanitarian point of view, I’m sure the horses were treated better than the average factory chicken – even the free range ones – and that they lived to an old age before their corpses were tossed in the patty-grinder.

In my opinion people should be more concerned about how much sugar and salt is in their processed beef than how much of it comes from an animal that isn’t a cow.

To Tesco: Just repackage as 'Bronco Burgers - What Real Cowboys Eat!' and you'll be fine.


Kitty Curry

Standing by the bins at the back of work having a fag break and a ginger kitten scampers across and into the back door of the Chinese take-away. I wander over and call the kitty to me. Partly because I think it’ll scoff some food and partly coz, well, I’m afraid they’ll throw it in a pot and serve it up as chicken.

This may brand me as ridiculous at best and racist at worst, but there you go… A few years ago in Plymouth a take-away was shut down because Health & Safety found a bunch of pigeon traps in its courtyard; so maybe the shards of this story are embedded in my unconscious.

The funny thing is that when I call the cat over the Asian cook, in very broken English, tells me it’s okay, he can come in. I ask if it’s their cat and he says yes. The cat strolls into their office and the cook makes like his hands are holding invisible cutlery and he’s feeding himself, “Dinner! Dinner!” he says.

Okay, I reply, and while I’m finishing my smoke I wonder whose dinner he was referring to.

Biltong Before Bedtime

The other night I dreamt that a massive, orange penguin was walking around the house. Then the penguin burst open (it was just a penguin suit) and a bunch of little penguins burst out!

I half-woke up and worriedly told Lucy, “Close the door! The penguins will get in.” then burst out laughing.

In 1953 the University of Chicago’s Sleep Research Laboratory discovered that about an hour after we hit the sack we experience a burst of rapid eye movement, or REM, along with a change in brain wave activity – our brains act like they do when we’re awake.

About 80% of people recall their dreams if woken during REM; and only around 30-50% if woken after REM, but this is more a memory of dreaming without the particulars.

What’s interesting is that D-state (desynchronised- or dreaming-state) shut-eye has been observed in monkeys, dogs, cats, rats, elephants, shrews and opossums, and even in some birds and reptiles.

I sometimes dream about flying, and I wondered if birds sometimes dream about sitting in their undies on the couch with beer, pizza and a James Bond movie on TV.

Surgical deconstruction shows that the ability to dream depends on the pontine tegmentum area in the brain stem, and involves a bodily chemical called norepinephrine and sometimes serotonin.

Physiological changes include increased variability in heart rate, a jump in activity in the respiratory system and sexual organs (often caused by Jessica Simpson or Oprah), higher blood pressure and almost total relaxation of the skeletal muscles.

I’ve noticed that I tend to dream more vividly and bizarrely when the moon is full.

This is not psychosomatic, because sometimes I don’t even realise it’s a full moon until after the weird nightmares.

For me, slumberland is either in blue-and-white (like I’m in a dark room at night) or in bright, primary colours (like you’d see in a child’s old colouring-in book).

The scariest dream I ever had went something like this: I was Batman swinging from the rooftops, the grass was lumo green and the buildings processed-cheese yellow. I landed on a red roof and a guy at the other end told me everyone I knew was dead and had been replaced with robots. He peeled his face back and there was a gray, metal robot-face underneath. Then Robin did the same to reveal a metal mug.

Philosophers argue that dreams are either reflections of reality, sources of divination, extensions of the waking state, or curative.

In ancient Greece there was a practice known as ‘temple sleep’. Sick people would dos down in a god’s temple and wait for the big man (usually Asdepius) to give them two Panado and a note for work.

Psychologists laugh at such superstitions, but offer no better answers.

Freud wrote that dreams are a reflection of our repressed wishes – hostile and sexual – and that we keep ourselves from waking to avoid awareness of our disgusting desires.

Maybe I should get Lucy to dress up in a penguin suit for my birthday.

Carl Jung believed dreams balanced those bits of our character that are underrepresented in our daily lives and that they could affect those lives when we were denying ourselves true elements of our personalities.

Time to get that Batman costume out again.

Personally, I think those dream interpretation books are bollocks – if you’re so interested go see a shrink, you cheapskate. You can’t just paint all our psyches with the same hippie paintbrush.

All we know for sure is that you shouldn’t eat cheese, chocolate, or biltong before bed because that will always lead to anarchy in the land of Nod.

As for the moon thing – tides of the largest amplitude occur during the full moon or new moon, and the human body is, what, 80% liquid?

That’s got to have some effect.

Here Come the Sushi Sweats!

Sushi always reminds me of Jesus.

When I was a kid my dad would stick a tray of hot cross buns in the oven and toast them to perfection, whack a heart-palpitating amount of butter on top, and serve them crispy and warm on Easter morning.

I’d stuff my face and no matter how painfully bloated my stomach became I just couldn’t stop eating. I’d roll on the ground clutching my belly and moan, “Never again!”, the way I do now the morning after too much Jagermeister.

Sushi is much the same. I sit at the conveyer belt, grabbing two plates at a time, and not stopping until I hear the tear of my stomach lining.

It just tastes so good. The chopsticks used to slow me down, but I’ve mastered the art and these days I’m like Mr Miyagi – stick wings on the California roll and let it fly around the room, it won’t bother me.

The only problem I have is when it comes to paying the bill; I never know how much to tip the waiter.

Should you tip the waiter at a sushi bar? All he does is bring you a drink, and then the bill, and then he stands there with a sour face when you tip him ten percent of the Appletizer when you’ve spent R400 on sashimi.

To paraphrase Hank Moody, you’d think you’d just finger-banged his cat.

I asked the manager what he thought about tipping the sushi chef because I didn’t want to insult some ancient Asian cultural belief that I maybe knew nothing about, and all he said was that the chefs get a salary, while the waiter gets tips and a sjambokking if there’s a fingerprint on the glassware.

He wouldn’t tell me how much the chefs earned, but he said it’s okay to give them money and I shouldn’t be worried about the absurdly large cleavers they wield.

I did this and explained my actions to the waiter’s downturned maw, but he just grunted something in Hausa and snatched the notes from my hand.

The sushi chef, when I handed him his share of the gratuity, kind of looked at my outstretched hand, then up at the soy sauce dripping from my chin, and slowly took the money with an expression on his face like he thought I was Leon Shuster.

So now I’m even more confused.

I tried to think, “What would Jesus do?”, but then thought Jesus was probably too busy healing lepers to sit around at a sushi bar anxiously watching salmon roses circulate, hoping that no one got to them before he did.

I bet he was more a McDonald’s Drive-Thru man.

The Simba Lekker Flavour Competition

In an obvious effort to re-crisp soggy sales, instead of enhancing quality Simba Chips unzipped its Lekker Flavour Competition encouraging South Africans to send in suggestions for new chip flavours and for some reason an accompanying picture (?) of your inspiration. My own entry, Bacon & Egg flavour and diagrammatic instructions on how to roll a joint, was clearly discarded with contempt for such simple brilliance. So now, inspired by the bitterness of rejection, I submit my opinions on all four “lekker flavours”.


BRENDAN JOHNSTON’S SNOEK & ATCHAR
Remember Creoles? Sure, they stank like a dirty fisherman, but the MSG flavour with a slight hint of seafoodiness was amazing… then they were gone. So I envisioned being whisked back to those heady days of “fish Niknaks”. Not so.

If Dr Moreau genetically spliced a Sea Harvest lorry driver with one of those Indians on Durban beach selling fake Ray-Ban’s and got him to run the Two Oceans Marathon this is what the sweat on the soles of his feet would taste like. A better name would be Week-Old Fishpaste & Donkey Dick.


AYANDA THABEDE’S VETKOEK & POLONY
If you’ve ever been in a holding cell in a Cape Town police station you’ll know that for breakfast they serve hard-boiled eggs on bread and a plastic cup of tepid tea. For lunch they serve sandwiches made from the leftover breakfast bread filled with a thick slice of pink Shoprite polony and a plastic cup of tepid tea.

The good news is now they can serve these chips to the inmates and soon have them begging for the old mouldy bread and processed pig-butt. Some scientists work on a cure for cancer, some find it more important to focus on coming up with the chemical equivalent of polony-flavour – who am I to judge?


ALETTA CROFTON’S WALKIE TALKIE CHICKEN
The fact that a white woman who wasn’t Evita Bezuidenhout sent this in shows how far some people will go to try and convince us they’re socially and culturally integrated. And the fact that most rich housewives who wouldn’t have chicken feet and beaks touch their kitchen counter in Constantia will giggle with their book club mates and think that eating this vile product will bring them closer to their domestic worker proves what phonies we all are.

Shame on us whites without the courage to, in the spirit of nation building, eat a chicken’s feet and beak and be proud.


MONRAY SACKANARY’S MASALA STEAK GATSBY
I once ate a real Gatsby at the Grand Parade and suffered from stomach cramps and projectile pukage for the rest of the school holidays – thanks for the memories, Monray, maybe Bobotie & Barf Bucket would be better.

In all honesty, this is by far the most edible and hopefully digestible of the lot (I’ll tell you in a few hours) so I guess it gets my vote. A winner by default.