Nature May Abhor a Vacuum but Suburbia Sure Loves a Leaf Blower.
In the verdant suburban sprawl, the uninitiated masses vainly search for the quaint silence once celebrated in pastoral myths — charming, perhaps, to those with less refined tastes. The modern sophisticate, however, appreciates the richness offered by the incessant, blaring symphonies of human achievement. Why pine for the whisper of wind when one can revel in the roar of an arsenal of machinery running day or night (or both!)? Here, in these cultivated fields of progress, the glorious din of civilization justly overrules the silence sought by the hoi polloi. This sonic landscape is not for those unfortunates who crave a rough-hewn quietude, but rather for the discerning citizen who understands that true progress resonates through the hum of industry. The air simply must crackle with the sounds of civilization’s upkeep, the resounding overture of spring.
I just made several dozen cookies using cookie butter, essentially folding finely ground cookies into other cookies. This was after I contemplated making Oreo-stuffed chocolate chip cookies.
Maybe it’s the season. Maybe it’s my brain. Most likely, it’s the eggnog that leads me to share these thoughts.
Once upon a time, food had a certain dignity. I don’t mean to romanticize the past – the food wasn’t necessarily good, but everything sort of stayed in its lane, just as God and Ina Garten intended. Pies and cakes didn’t go seeking thrills inside one another’s layers. A turkey wasn’t trying to form some sort of poultry Voltron with a duck and a chicken. And you could enjoy a donut without fearing it would attempt a surprise flank maneuver on the croissants.
(We’re just going to take a moment to pour one out for the troubling put-everything-in Jell-O era, okay?)
Do yourself a favor and do not look up photos of the final product.
ANYHOO. BeJell-Oed fish aside, these were orderly days. Predictable.
Naturally, this didn’t last, because America, God bless her goofy heart, just had to ask things like, “What if this were two foods?” and “What if this were three foods wearing a trench coat?”
And we just had to answer, “Let’s find out!” We even had the temerity to be enthusiastic about it.
Long story short, everything started declining.
It’s not total collapse. Not yet, at least. Decline takes time. Decline is a gentle slope you slide down while clutching a cocktail weenie.
First came the turducken. Fine. Well, not fine. Terrible. But it was a novelty, a kitschy one-off we could pretend was harmless.
Along barreled the cronut, then entered the piecaken, and at that point the Universe quietly ducked out for cigarettes.
Of course, the Tofurkey strutted in trying to claim creative credit for all these food mashups. Pretty bold for a plant impersonating meat with more commitment than half the actors on the WB in its heyday.
Now, for those preparing to storm the comment section of this VERY SERIOUS AND HIGHLY ACADEMIC TREATISE to inform me I “misunderstand food” and to quote from the Book of You Got Chocolate in my Peanut Butter, I say unto you: NAY. NAY, ESTEEMED SCHOLAR. I am not speaking of such blessed unions
I speak of “Your chefs were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should.” I speak of culinary unions baroque and unsound, where a food is nestled inside another food, occasionally mashed with a third, and often pretending to be a fourth. I speak of the insult added to injury via portmanteau.
You may ask, “What ho, Malvolio?”
Which is a weird question right now. Why are you asking that?
A better question is, “What comes next?”
I (or maybe it’s the eggnog) have taken the liberty of imagining exactly that. (Oh, no.) I’m not saying these will happen, and I’m not saying they should.
Except they will.
And still, they definitely should not.
So, what horrors await?
A pork tenderloin tucked coyly into a soufflé, resulting in the Souffloin? The Brûléurger, a burger with a cracked sugar crust, because separating dinner and dessert is a real time waster?
There is, I fear, a genuine possibility of a Sushperd’s Pie, sushi nestled beneath mashed potatoes. This is the sort of thing you serve only to your nemesis.
Our pastries may develop pork issues (Baklavacon), and our Fritos may develop pastry issues (Fritocotta).
Let us not pretend we are prepared for the arrival of the Chocochimachattorellacci (Chocolate + Chimichanga + Cacciatore + Cappellacci).
Any faith in humanity you’ve been clinging to may at this point be folly.
Now, this is the part of the essay where I write some sort of takeaway. (Pun not intended, unless you laughed, in which case pun intended).
Ahem.
This is the part of the essay where I make it about me.
Look, maybe culinary monstrosities are born of loneliness and/or an impulse to unnecessarily break something, hot glue it back together, and call it innovation.
Maybe we keep stuffing food inside food because stuffing feelings inside feelings is harder and definitely not something to bring to an office potluck.
Or maybe some influencer is issuing gastrointestinal dares to shoppers as they enter the grocery store. I don’t know. Theories abound.
What is certain is that someone, somewhere, is going to read my jokes and think, “Bisquisketbabka? Challenge accepted.” And suddenly I’ll be forced to eat some sort of bisque in a brisket in a babka, and it’ll be my own damned fault.
But there’s still hope for you, dear reader.
If someone produces a Quesoquichewich, or a Mortarollini, or a Bouillabiscuitryanibatten, rise from your chair, walk to the door, and leave without looking back.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my Salisbury Schn’moruflakanaki (Schnitzel + S’mores + Soufflé + Saganaki) is calling.
Encompassing but not limited to text chains, Messenger threads, WhatsApp dramas, Facebook comment kerfuffles, and similar circles of digital grievance.
It is a melancholy object, to those who dare attempt discourse, when they find conversations derailed by nuance, muddied with civility, or — ye gods! — conducted in person. Face-to-face conversations are notoriously unreliable, as they often involve people saying things that sound suspiciously like what they mean.
In this smoldering age, politicians argue, institutions creak, and somewhere, someone is inventing a new kind of paperwork.
I think it is agreed by all sensible parties (and at least three committees who have been trying to adjourn since 2006) that the sheer multiplicity of human communication is a public menace. Who amongst us has not endured the inefficiency of speech, the peril of eye contact, or the muppety flapping of arms to emphasize a point? No politician, pundit, or professor can preserve us.
Therefore, I modestly propose (usually preferable to immodestly proposing) that the group chat be the model and indeed the mechanism by which all of society is preserved. All communication, be it domestic, political, or sextual, should be confined henceforth to group texts, Facebook comment threads, and other online bitching arenas. All comments can be observed, recorded, and weaponized as needed. I propose these places not because they’re good, but because they’re reliably bad, which these days is the closest thing we have to safe.
We have already seen its power. A PTA chat of fifteen mothers and one father who replies “sounds good” can coordinate massive amounts of allergen-free snacks with more efficiency than the Pentagon deploys aircraft. A college roommate chat can process four marriages, two divorces, and one regrettable tattoo with fewer delays than family court. A midnight “you up?” has sparked (and derailed) more talks than Geneva.
By my best calculations, a group text of six to thirty-seven people, on a topic of no importance or clarity, can continue for weeks without resolution yet with feigned enthusiasm, thus bonding the community like poorly-set epoxy. Likewise, a Facebook thread can be expected to produce on average 142 comments: 118 bad-faith accusations, 17 GIFs, and 7 people sincerely attempting to help. They will be ignored. Surely these numbers demonstrate the efficiency of the system. Surely, also they demonstrate the futility of resistance.
Also, I posit with the mathematical certainty of one who regularly zoned out in algebra class, that for every one thousand “k” reactions, at least five international conflicts may be prevented. Gross domestic happiness would increase by twelve percent.
Of course, rules must be clear: no muting, no leaving, no sneaking off to Buffalo Wild Wings for in-person jibber jabber. Every meme circulated thrice shall acquire the force of law.
Should anyone run afoul of these rules, the penalty shall be immediate banishment to an uncomfortably governmental Signal chat.
Some will cry out that this proposal reduces sincerity, nuance, and basic human decency. To which I reply with all possible graciousness: obviously. Have you met people? And have we not already reduced all discourse to bloviating, grievances, and emojis? I merely propose a proper filing system.
Others may object in favor of email, to which I say: That way lies madness. Group texts are the last good ship on the sea, and if we are to survive, we had better climb aboard. (Also, just admit it: your Gmail is a Mausoleum of the Unread.)
A third objection may be raised, that conversation face-to-face is preferable. This, in theory, I cannot deny; yet in practice, it has already ruined civilization, whereas the group text has not yet had the opportunity.
I profess sincerely that I have no personal stake in this. I have been ejected from three group chats, ignored in countless threads, and endured the indignity of someone attempting to mute me in person with a TV remote. My only motive is the preservation of civilization by its last remaining instrument: the perpetual ding of notification
Jackie Pick 