Somebody crack my thumbs with a crab claw because I’ve got scrolling fever!
Awake all night, razzed up on the buns, the pho, the eggs, the butter. My toe tapping like a freight train as I swipe through 356 buns a minute. My sweat dripping like a waterfall as I heart, double tap, and like more salads than a vegan wedding buffet, more burgers than a Texan stag do.
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I need that food photography man. I need it in my 20-hour bone broth and in the tips of my chicken toes.
Save yourself the digital strain and allow us to present the very best in morsels, mouthfeel, and munchies uploaded to Instagram this week.
You know how every couple of years, a big publisher will bring out a new edition of some seminal lesbian novel? Tipping the Velvet. Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit. The Well of Loneliness. And they want something that looks a bit like a vagina, but not too much like actual, real life human genitalia? So you get a pink purse full of pearls? Or a tinned peach covered in syrup? Well, I think we just found the burrito equivalent.
Nothing brings a thrill to my heart like the words “nutritious yeast” and I know I’m not the only one. Not to mention “lambs quarters,” chickweed, bishop’s elder, and of course, the mighty “fiddlehead ferns.” Put it on an ink needle and bury it in my skin.
Last time I got caught #eatingfortheinsta, it was when my partner walked in to find me trying to photograph an apple that had rolled halfway up my skirt, under the caption “just getting my Pink Lady out for the lads.” Great times.
Oh, I just love a nice mug of bitumen, twigs, axle grease, and a heathy dollop of white emulsion first thing in the morning. Really sets me up for the day. No need for spoons, either. I just push the whole thing into my mouth using a basil leaf.
Ah mate, somebody’s dropped a load of frogspawn on your watermelon there. Sorry mate. I’ll get you a new one.
Have you ever tried to actually feast on crab? Like, to really fill up on crab? It’s like trying to skateboard on a bran flake. Or shelter from the rain under a bagel. But add that crab to a load of wheat, oil, salt, and egg? Then, my friends, you’re in business. And nobody knows this better than Her Royal Thighness, Nigella.
You call it a pheasant black mushroom. I call it a skin condition.
Ah, cauliflower. Once the brassica that ruled fart-smelling school corridors and the cheese sauce packets of your grandmother’s larder. Now her white inflorescence meristem is basically the Kardashian of the cultivar group. Go whistle down a train track, broccoli, brussels sprouts, cabbage, and collard greens. Nobody cares.
I can only assume those are small piles of talcum powder she’s accidentally scattered all over her nice tablecloth, along with a cup full of Kahlua and the remains of a daisy chain. Bit of a mess, to be honest.
You’re a monster. A monster. But you’re my kind of monster.