I am an American. And being and American I am inherently possessed of the dangerous combination of too much time to think and too little information in which to formulate an educated opinion. Making it worse, I’m male. So when I take the time to write down the random madness that springs to mind, it is right. It doesn’t matter what you say. However, there is a big difference in forcing friends and family to endure never ending diatribes about whatever might have annoyed me that day and actually making an effort to reach out into the electronic void to say something. That something might actually be read by someone. And that someone will no doubt swaddle themselves in the security blanket of internet anonymity in which to lash out at my debatable religious viewpoints, scarce political feelings and ambiguous sexual proclivities.
So… I’m an American guy with nothing to say and too much time to say it. Let’s talk about ketchup.
KETCHUP
How does one define the red, viscous fluid used en masse by hoards of American eaters in order to cover up the debatable taste and questionable content of their average meal? How do you describe ketchup to a Brit that knows only of mayo, bread sauce or vinegar. Or to a Canadian that prefers the strange brown brew referred to loosely as gravy? An Asian beyond content with fish and soy sauce? Or someone, somewhere that is desperately hoping that I save the five cents it costs to get the brand name Ketchup instead of the un-American Catsup and send it to them so that the proceeds may buy them a school?
In a word: love.
Ketchup is to Americans as the internet is to pox-marked, racist virgins the world over: a security blanket. It is the go-to staple in cupboards, refrigerators and restaurant tables from Tampa to Portland (either of them). It is there to remind us that if the food that we ordered tastes worse than we expect and we are too cowardice to send it back, that we can bath the graying hamburger-like meat or equestrian filled hot dog in enough ketchup so as to imagine we were eating something worth the $9.99 we overpaid for bad service and warm beer.
But what about the “Foodie” crowd? The people that actually expect to go to a restaurant and have a pleasant experience while arguing over if it is star anise or freshly ground coriander that is tickling their taste buds (for all I know they both taste the same). To these people I ask, why are you reading this? Don’t you have someone that you should be looking down your nose at right now?
Any true American, be you white collar or blue collar, must somewhere deep in your heart subscribe to that darkest of admissions that you are actually a ketchup loving “red collar”. If for no other reason that it is our heritage. It is part of our collective youth. Be you rich or poor, every child has experienced that moment of wonderment, looking at the red carton with the magical golden arch on the front, it’s cup runneth over with oil drenched, salt encrusted morsels of potato heaven. The desire to get the “Happy Meal” if for no other reason than the poorly constructed toy that someone, somewhere would choke on and the slivers of delicious Idahoan brilliance. So simple. So wonderful.
Take a basic starch seen across the world. Shred it. Throw it in oil until brown. Dose in salt. Serve. Bon apatite. Too hot? What could possible serve to counter-balance the scorching oil? Perhaps a small, individually wrapped packet of America’s proof that we can improve on God’s design? One packet was never enough. Give me 10. Give me 20! Give me some from the purse of the blue hair that just shoved 50 in her purse just so that they could sit in the butter drawer of her refrigerator for the next decade. And should the day come that woman died and her heirs went through her house, dividing up her estate. Greedily wolfing down fast foot as they argue over who has to take her ashes and who gets to take her prescription meds, that ketchup will be there, as good as the day it was oozed, the perfect mask for the culinary mistake you have sitting in your cardboard-thus-good-for-the-planet container.
Sweet and tangy. Warm and nostalgic. A throwback to simpler times when men were men and women were hairier. To a time when it was served after 30 minutes of shaking that damn glass bottle until it looked like the smallest dab would finally fall out just to watch as the entire bottle emptied onto your plate, the table and your lap. A blessed time.
A time when servers gave you a bottle of red gold instead of a little metal dish that isn’t enough to dip one fry in let along coat a burger with enough left over to also dunk in any bare part of bun. Seriously? Are restaurant owners that concerned about loss of revenue over ketchup? Or that the bottle looks tacky so that they should class the place up with it’s own serving bowl? If you serve food that needs to be masked in ketchup, presentation is the least of your worries. Give me a God damn bucket and stop asking me if I want dessert!
You actually got to the end? Thanks Mom. I appreciate the effort. I know that some day, maybe days, maybe months, maybe years, I will live to regret the 20 minutes I just spent wasting your time.
Next Blog: The Structural Pros and Cons of Market Pantry Pizza
So… I’m an American guy with nothing to say and too much time to say it. Let’s talk about ketchup.
KETCHUP
How does one define the red, viscous fluid used en masse by hoards of American eaters in order to cover up the debatable taste and questionable content of their average meal? How do you describe ketchup to a Brit that knows only of mayo, bread sauce or vinegar. Or to a Canadian that prefers the strange brown brew referred to loosely as gravy? An Asian beyond content with fish and soy sauce? Or someone, somewhere that is desperately hoping that I save the five cents it costs to get the brand name Ketchup instead of the un-American Catsup and send it to them so that the proceeds may buy them a school?
In a word: love.
Ketchup is to Americans as the internet is to pox-marked, racist virgins the world over: a security blanket. It is the go-to staple in cupboards, refrigerators and restaurant tables from Tampa to Portland (either of them). It is there to remind us that if the food that we ordered tastes worse than we expect and we are too cowardice to send it back, that we can bath the graying hamburger-like meat or equestrian filled hot dog in enough ketchup so as to imagine we were eating something worth the $9.99 we overpaid for bad service and warm beer.
But what about the “Foodie” crowd? The people that actually expect to go to a restaurant and have a pleasant experience while arguing over if it is star anise or freshly ground coriander that is tickling their taste buds (for all I know they both taste the same). To these people I ask, why are you reading this? Don’t you have someone that you should be looking down your nose at right now?
Any true American, be you white collar or blue collar, must somewhere deep in your heart subscribe to that darkest of admissions that you are actually a ketchup loving “red collar”. If for no other reason that it is our heritage. It is part of our collective youth. Be you rich or poor, every child has experienced that moment of wonderment, looking at the red carton with the magical golden arch on the front, it’s cup runneth over with oil drenched, salt encrusted morsels of potato heaven. The desire to get the “Happy Meal” if for no other reason than the poorly constructed toy that someone, somewhere would choke on and the slivers of delicious Idahoan brilliance. So simple. So wonderful.
Take a basic starch seen across the world. Shred it. Throw it in oil until brown. Dose in salt. Serve. Bon apatite. Too hot? What could possible serve to counter-balance the scorching oil? Perhaps a small, individually wrapped packet of America’s proof that we can improve on God’s design? One packet was never enough. Give me 10. Give me 20! Give me some from the purse of the blue hair that just shoved 50 in her purse just so that they could sit in the butter drawer of her refrigerator for the next decade. And should the day come that woman died and her heirs went through her house, dividing up her estate. Greedily wolfing down fast foot as they argue over who has to take her ashes and who gets to take her prescription meds, that ketchup will be there, as good as the day it was oozed, the perfect mask for the culinary mistake you have sitting in your cardboard-thus-good-for-the-planet container.
Sweet and tangy. Warm and nostalgic. A throwback to simpler times when men were men and women were hairier. To a time when it was served after 30 minutes of shaking that damn glass bottle until it looked like the smallest dab would finally fall out just to watch as the entire bottle emptied onto your plate, the table and your lap. A blessed time.
A time when servers gave you a bottle of red gold instead of a little metal dish that isn’t enough to dip one fry in let along coat a burger with enough left over to also dunk in any bare part of bun. Seriously? Are restaurant owners that concerned about loss of revenue over ketchup? Or that the bottle looks tacky so that they should class the place up with it’s own serving bowl? If you serve food that needs to be masked in ketchup, presentation is the least of your worries. Give me a God damn bucket and stop asking me if I want dessert!
You actually got to the end? Thanks Mom. I appreciate the effort. I know that some day, maybe days, maybe months, maybe years, I will live to regret the 20 minutes I just spent wasting your time.
Next Blog: The Structural Pros and Cons of Market Pantry Pizza
No comments:
Post a Comment