We've all been there - at a party, social gathering, friendly backyard BBQ, and somebody brings up the topic. Maybe just a casual mention, maybe even a shared secret, but soon all hell erupts.
No, I'm not talking about politics or religion. I'm talking about food.
Someone will mention sauerkraut, or anchovies, or pork rinds, or Miracle Whip, or god-forbid SPAM. Maybe an adult will put ketchup on their own hot dog, instead of just the kids'.
And before you know it, chaos in the form of a mob as sides are chosen and the shouting begins.
"My Gawd, you actually eat that stuff?" or "Why do you care what I put on my hot dog? I like what I like, you damn food elitist." or "If you'd just TRY it the right way, you'd find you like it better than your way."
I must confess, I'm guilty of that, from both sides of the debate. Sometimes The Boss teases me when I use mayo instead of mustard on certain sandwiches, and I'll grumble that she should just let me eat what I want. Moments later though, I'll try to publicly humiliate someone who puts ketchup on their hotdog. (But honestly, who over the age of 12 puts KETCHUP on a hot dog??!!)
The point is, like politics or religion, sometimes food is something that shouldn't be discussed in public. That's kind of a hard topic to avoid though at a patio party. Certain foods are a divider of people, and like other topics, the sides have been drawn up and everyone has a preference.
Sauerkraut - love it or hate it.
SPAM - love it or hate it.
The list goes on...
Which reminds me of one final question: This summer, will you be "BBQ'ing" or "grilling"?
Until Next Time...
Here's a video put together by a hot dog expert asking the people of Chicago their opinion of ketchup on hotdogs.
Divisively Yours,
Michael
Sometimes the best things in life are the simplest.
The poet Billy Collins once wrote after stumbling upon one simple, average word in the dictionary: "No cookie nibbled by a French novelist/could send one more suddenly into the past".
The same is true of food and I believe that's why many of us love to recreate the recipes of our mothers, aunts, grandmothers, etc. The food connection to the past hits multiple senses simultaneously and transports us back to those times and those kitchens where a certain magic resides.
It was such a memory that inspired my "Lasagna's Cousin" recipe, and this past week when I had extra chopped hot dogs that needed to be used up, that a simple can of regular pork and beans sent me back to my mom's kitchen many years ago.
Ah, yes - Good ol' Beans and Franks.
As a latchkey kid with a mother who didn't enjoy cooking anyway, a simple recipe with minimal prep time and inexpensive ingredients was just the kind of thing she made to get the "making dinner" item scratched off the evening's activities. Beans and Franks was one of the many recipes she used to keep two kids full.
She had many others, like salmon patties, a mac & cheese with tuna bake (although she called it casserole), cube steaks, pan-fried Spam, etc. Basically anything that could be prepped and cooked in under 30 minutes.
It is these very memories though that inspire even the most talented cook to new creations. These memories coupled with some people's desire to recreate them that spark a new found love of cooking and add to the overall collective. Modern cookbooks are now filled with little stories or essays about a beloved relative's recipe as the general cooking public desire more and more to hear stories about familial love associated with food, cooking, and the kitchen.
Everyone has heard the adage "Stop and Smell the Roses", and that's exactly the same thing in this instance. Sometimes it's good for us to forget about the multiple ingredients, the extra this or that, or the need to "wow" our family and internet follows with beautiful dishes that explode our taste buds. Sometimes we should just pause, make a simple Beans and Franks dinner and reminisce.
Until Next Time...
Here's a short video on how to make cube steaks (although I think this particular vlogger has them simmer too long)
Simply Yours,
Michael
