A new dawn. A new year. A new fear that you may have done yourself permanent intestinal damage over the holidays. What better time to take to the internet and look for some serious food porn #inspo? All those bowls of optimistic vegan intentions, bulletproof fruit concoctions, and Dry January convictions. All those hashtags heckling you into a fat-free, wholegrain, high fibre future where your eyes will glisten and your bowels be like Swiss quartz.
Instead of wasting hours of good eating time scrolling through endless pictures of babies, proposals, wilted Christmas trees, and half-baked ideas, allow us to spoonfeed you the very best food porn the heart-shaped, square-cut world of Instagram has to offer.
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Winter has decided to act like April so why not crack out two high-contrast, technicolour orbs of summer loving and those super cute wooden spoons you optimistically bought in the hope of future picnics? It’s “nice cream” season, after all.
Did you know that after his death, it was discovered that the one-time emperor and amateur Phil Collins lookalike Napoleon Bonaparte had just one testicle? A lone plum, hanging silent below the French military perineum? No wonder he was so good at marching.
Surely, nothing spells “detox” like an egg-sliced breakfast bowl of ramen? Ramen on empty, if you will.
My walk to work is a cornucopia of regurgitated kebabs, discarded chicken bones, and empty cans of Nurishment balanced on top of BT cable posts. For the executive chef at Gitanes, however, the morning commute is a multi-coloured forage fiesta of cara cara orange, chiogia beets, and shaved Burgundian truffle. Well, that’s fine. Just fine.
I don’t really know what goes into a vegan cheesecake, to be honest. I don’t know how far you can whip soy before it becomes a building material and I don’t know if you can actually squeeze the teats of an almond. But I do know that I’m staring up the orifice of a blush-pink raspberry and having some pretty elicit feelings.
The world and its wife are going crazy for lentils this year. The edible pulse is beating like a drum and we’ve all decided to shake a legume like a polaroid picture—which is a sigh of relief for livestock everywhere, I’m sure. But if I’m going to chow down on the contents of a pod, I’m probably going to dose it up with buttered pine nuts and a shitload of yogurt, too.
Remember when we all decided that we needed a new piece of punctuation? Some sort of declaratory exclamation point that signalled towards delighted confusion and questioning surprise? Well, my friends, I think we’ve found it. Oh look, chicken! And foam? Oh f*&k, is that deep fried Mini Milk? What the @!”£>$^
Ah, fuck it. If you can’t, from time to time, chow down a dosa the size of a telegraph pole with the lads, wearing your favourite plaid shirt and cupping your hands over your genitals like footballers at a penalty shootout then frankly, you’re not really eating at all. You’re just surviving. You’re just refuelling.
“What’s for dinner, Mum?” “I’m making your favourite.” “Really? Lasagna and chips?” “No, darling. A raw quartered cabbage and giant gourd, washed down with a glass of cold air and a ceramic brassica for afters.” “Woohoo! BEST. DAY. EVER.”
Up yours, January. I’m going to put my head in a giant, salted corn bucket and eat reconstituted pig arseholes covered in mustard. And there’s sweet fuck all you can do about it.
