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2023 Author: Cody Thornton | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-05-24 11:20
The theme that they assigned me for today's post is: generally appreciated dishes and preparations that personally enhance you as the income meter. Version 2016.
For the performance I thought of making a list (by categories) on mine dislikes, incompatibilities and repugnances for the things we eat and cook. Those things, in other words, that I love in their bare essence as much as shredding my arm in the food processor.
Will I collect your support? Will you mistreat me for these disgusts on the plate and in the stove? I look forward to the verdict, in the meantime distract me by telling what, between ingredients and recipes, everyone seems to like except you.
(Quick ideas: the sushi it's fucking overrated! And the prosecco has something to say once in a hundred).
Cabbage and derivatives, but above all cauliflower: I can't see it, smell it and it also irritates me to buy it. If I eat it, at best I swallow it antibiotic-style. In that worst abandonment the domestic assembly. There is no way to sublimate it (bechamel? Even no). Ok it's anti-carcinogenic I know, but it's a sad life of anti-oxidation and the abuse of this white robo I'm sure it causes unacceptable olfactory losses.
Liver: It did good in the old health paradigm (now definitely not anymore) but I have to talk about it as catharsis! I caught it in all sorts of ways, but there is nothing to do, even in the offal it always reminded me of the BMX tire. And when a Tuscan crostino was treacherously stuck in my mouth at 13, I didn't react well.
Minestrone: Ah, what a sweet caress for the stomach. What an intestinal balancer. Yes, ok eat it you that I die (cit.)
Purée in bag: "It looks like talc but it is not, it serves to give joy!". Advertising suggestions are useless, more than happiness it is an infinite sadness. There is no need for suggestive images and glossy packaging, not even the help of (plasticky) diced ham can make me change my mind about freeze-dried mashed potatoes, NEVER. Not to mention the "roll of joy", which Benedetta Parodi is already enough, let alone her lexical flourishes.
Canned peas: I have not capitulated before, when an off-site university with a ridiculous monthly budget I had dinner with toast and coffee with milk or chips and gingerino, imagine now: never cook canned vegetables. I am not disturbed by the practicality of the precooked legume, the soft green bean, the tangled spinach, rather bread and onion.
The tradition that does not heat up
Polenta: Sorry Milanese, but alone it is as anonymous as a Murray match. In the taragna variant or with the pot of sausage sauce and Roman-style ribs it reaches important peaks, but this is not the case and the Lombard exegete will always celebrate his grace in single combat.
Pastiera: Basically I eat everything (except coconut) and they call me shark, but the pastiera, I am incorrigible I know, makes me disgusted. It may be for the cursed candied fruit and the cooked wheat but it has a texture that repels me. Space for the sweet suck, pass me the casatiello.
Salted cod: Alla veneziana, alla vicentina (bow to the sacred brotherhood), alla livornese, fried in tempura or creamed is a sublime delight, but do you have a remote idea of what it means to cook it at home? No? So I'll explain: cod and stockfish go to soak for a variable period between 24 hours and a time x, during which the house smells like a well while it is being unloaded, and if unfortunately you try to put it outside, in your beautiful porch., get ready to compete for the dish with the whole feline community. There is no appeal, the cod can be taken at the restaurant or at the fish market, already nice and soaked.
Tripe: If I refuse the idea of cooking the organ through which thoughts pass, of facing the apparatus where something else flows, we don't even talk about it. I also raise my hands on tripe and, for emergencies such as "dear, I would have a great desire for tripe", there are mothers-in-law, let's not forget that.
The pleasure that does not reach me
Whipped Cream: For me, the most insipid of the discount store and the most artisanal one in the world have in common the total indifference to its use. I improved: up to a couple of decades ago I just couldn't swallow it.
Fried Mars: As nice, sexy and charismatic as you find yourself, dear (ex) Junoesque Nigella Lawson, domestic Goddess and forbidden dream for crowds of eaters, I will never convince myself, even under hypnosis, to bread and fry a chocolate bar filled with malt, caramel. and only God knows what else. I miss the curiosity. But I miss a smear.
Sugar paste: The glycemic coma induced by the ingredient list would also cause the skin of Berlusconi's immobile face to wrinkle. Yet he goes crazy among the delirious fans of cake design, on TV at all hours, in the shop windows: you won't have sugar paste, neither forged in a water lily, nor adorably shaped in a mouse. I will never send dear, old, outmoded almond paste into early retirement.