Shit Food Bloggers Say

From the horribly conceived “Piglet Tournament of Cookbooks 2013” on the otherwise wonderful food52.com, the opening paragraph:

“Cosentino and Bloomfield are both known for muscular, meaty cooking that elevates all the lesser bits of the animal. In their new books, A Girl and Her Pig (Bloomfield) and Beginnings: My Way to Start a Meal (Cosentino), both pay tribute to Italian culinary traditions, filtered through personal experience and enthusiasms. And that’s basically where the similarities between these books end.”

-Adam Sachs

But your know, let’s create a false direct competition between these two books for some stupid reason that hurts the authors of the “losing” books. Having thoughtful writers dig into these books isn’t a cover for the shittiness of what you’re doing.

What is normally a very supportive site to authors, food52 is gunning for clicks with controversy. It’s depressing and desperate. 

Please stop this silliness now. It’s embarrassing and cheap. And I know embarrassing and cheap.

I have a beautiful spreadsheet showing all of my tweets, their respective favstar count, and RTs. 

I have pivot tables because I know how to do fucking pivot tables. My mom doesn’t even know what that means. She’s constantly disappointing me.

I have the same type of spreadsheets for Ree and Jaden. I didn’t bother with Elise yet, but I’ll get to her. I feel like I’ll never be better than Ree, and Jaden just did her second book. I didn’t get a preview copy but whatever. She also has pretty hair, so I hate her. 

But I can totally take Elise.

when you mention thesis for wordpress

when you make fun of seo

when you tweet to a food celebrity that you’re making their recipe

when you talk about the “crazy” search terms that led someone to your blog

when you talk about the clients you’re going to work with tomorrow

when you give a sneak peak of an upcoming post

when you comment on your blog under fake names

when you waste time complaining about how you’re so busy

when you spend time criticizing people who actually create things

when you get so meta that no one can understand what you’re doing anymore

when you get upset when someone criticizes your impossible-to-understand self-analysis

when you use the word “stabby”

when you ask people to go to lunch

when you panic when they don’t respond

when you get mad at everyone around you because you’re late on something

when you make lists of things that you hate about yourself.

health inspection something something town officials.

condemned. attic. me. feces. raccoon. quinoa.

mom. moving in with me. taking my bedroom.

couch. me.

mom. here.

can’t.

breathe.

dream sequence

Sponsored by Sous Vide at Home. The Sous Vide at Home System (TM) let’s you sous vide. At home. Not true.

I was given a Sous Vide at Home System to try (not true). I loved it (this would be true if they had given me one). I use it every day. For every meal. I want to give you one (not true). But I can’t (true). So please buy one (true). 

waking up.

on couch.

mom snoring. in my bed.

this is how it ends.

This recipe is adapted from Kat Kinsman https://twitter.com/kittenwithawhip/status/287292973748715521

• Some vodka
• Some tonic
• Some ice
• A glass
• A lemon wedge.

I was so excited to find that 2012 was coming to an end. I had locked myself away in my mother’s attic for four months, pretending I was the ghost of my father who abandoned me and is not dead. I’ve got a lot of unresolved open hostility toward my mother, and it was fun to channel that anger through passive-aggressive whispering at night time.

“You’re pie crust tears too easily.”

“People think your child is wonderful.”

“Salted butter makes you fat.”

These are things I always want to say to her. I loved having the freedom to tell her how I felt directly, through the ceiling and air vents while she slept. I took a great deal of satisfaction knowing that I was really messing with her sleep patterns.

But after four months of living in an attic with no bathroom, the stench of my quinoa dreams got the best of me. It turns out, I had so infected my mother’s house that she called an exterminator. As a child, I played Bandit, the ever-curious raccoon, in a first-grade play. Even this experience was not enough to give me the tools to fool the exterminator. He knew I was human.

“What the fuck?” he said, when he saw me huddled in the corner, a black mask of waste smeared across my eyes from ear to ear. I sat up on my haunches, swatting playfully at the air.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Please don’t tell my mom,” I whispered.

The exterminator, who looked like Anthony Bourdain without a tan or teeth, backed down the attic pull-down stairs, never saying another word as he left the house.

I waited for mother to go to sleep, but I heard the TV blaring late into the night. And then the people on the TV started counting down.

10.

9.

8.

7.

The TV turned off. The house was quiet. 

I heard Mom sigh that terrible sound that says she’s getting up from a chair.

Shuffling back to her bedroom.

The light switch on the brass lamp next to her bed.

Silence.

“Good night, sweetie,” she said. “Happy New Year.”

And that’s how I rang in 2013!!! I’m ready to press my dream board into my soul and do something wonderful!!! I’m filled with so much love.

Bedroom. Buttercream. Feeling special for the first time today.

Anonymous asked: Why will food porn sites accept a photo that looks like a slice of poop on a plate or regurgitated, poorly lit, baby food, but they won't accept my beautifully staged muffin surrounded by ribbon-covered spoons and crinkly paper? #PoorCompositionMy@#$

Hey, here’s an idea. Revolutionary.

Grow the fuck up.

Craft time is over.

You’re not some former preschooler who just got off the bus after a full day at kindergarten, realizing that recess is over and SHIT IS REAL.

Put your goddamn twine and ribbons away. No one eats like that. No one wants to look at your photos and think, “Hey, I saw that at Michael’s!” 

Just slap some food on a plate. Get a nice macro shot so no one knows what the hell they’re looking at, and eat your food.

We’re all eating dinner alone, whether we’re with other people or not.

And if you haven’t made the recipe for their slice of poop, you really don’t know whether or not that shit tastes good.

Also, pull out a little with your lens. Remember, you want to be close but not too close. I call it the “just the tip” rule. 

But I thought your muffin looked great. Really.

Anonymous asked: What would you do if you thought another food blogger was your friend and it was really not the case, they were just using you?

I am confused. Making friends with other food bloggers is a terrible idea. Why the fuck would you do that? They are horrible people. And I know horrible. Which leads me to this gem:

OF COURSE YOUR FRIEND IS USING YOU!!!

Why the fuck do you think they wanted to be your friend??? That’s what friends do. They use each other. Emotionally, financially, to improve their respective standing, to open doors that rightfully should be kept shut, to envy, to have someone to hate on a regular basis, to have someone to tell secrets to so that you know all the right people find out because it would be gauche to tell them yourself, and for someone to compare your alcohol consumption to so that you know your booze intake is just fine, thank you.

Is this news to you? Because grow up. The ONLY reason I am nice-ish to people on Twitter is because I want something from them. For example, why did I agree to do that interview with Matt Armendariz? It’s not because he’s talented (I think we all know that he’s no Penny D). It’s not because he is kind (total shitbag). It’s because he knows Martha. And I want to scissor with Martha (the kind of scissoring that doesn’t involve making decorative edges for scrapbooking my blog posts. Unless you’re using the term metaphorically). I want to know Martha completely. So I pretend I like Matt’s work better than mine. It’s easy. And I move a little closer to realizing my dreams.

So what to do about your friend/user? Set boundaries. Stop revealing everything. Stop expecting the friend to be something he or she can’t be for you. Stop thinking you can rely on that person. Accept the friend’s failures and shortcomings as the personal burdens that he or she has to carry through life. And feel a little sad. Then decide if you need this person in your life. And if you do, decide just how much you want this person in your life. Then act like an adult who understands that people are sometimes shitty and often let you down. You’ll be happier. And a little more lonely. Just like me.

Anonymous asked: What's a fast method for aging "natural" sheets of parchment paper? Folding and unfolding and refolding looks too desperate. I want them to look worn and crinkly, but in a nonchalant kind of way...

I sleep in a bed covered in parchment paper sheets. I have them cut to fit my baking sheets *natch* and for my 8 and 9 inch rounds. I carefully cover every inch of my mattress with the parchment sheets. 

THIS IS IMPORTANT!!! Do not let the parchment sheets overlap!!! Touching is fine, but exposure to your natural body oils is so important for the aged look you want.

Let’s talk about body care. Personal hygiene is always important when it comes to cooking. Sleeping on your parchment is no exception. You want the casual creases of living to come through your parchment but cleanliness makes such a difference. And so does shaving.

Every night I thoroughly shave every inch of my body. My arms are my shame spots for hair, so I spend a lot of time on them. I try to use something nicely scented from Williams-Sonoma. Their soaps are so nice, it’s like I’m washing my body while cooking because their scents are incredible! I love the tomato hand soap from WS. It’s limited edition so buy in bulk whenever you see it.

Once you’ve shaved and washed (and rinsed!!!), do not use a towel to dry yourself off. Run to your bedroom and slip carefully into your bed of parchment. Moisture matters. A lot. That gets the crevices in your parchment to last a lifetime. 

I believe in heirlooms. And I can’t wait to pass my parchment on to my loved ones. Nothing makes me happier than thinking about my (someday!) children’s children sleeping on their own parchment. Traditions matter. So start yours tonight.