The Importance of Being Ernest About Your Viands

I got caught up in my past again today thinking of a favorite commercial, because, during the day, I am a drudge, making my mind mine, you see. And for you who know me, you will not be stupefied to know that my thoughts turned to food.

Dairy, in fact.
All wares milky, in fact, but particularly the rinded.  
(For the next paragraph, imagine it is being spoken in  Superman 3's narrator's voice. For those of you who, for whatever reason, lost the brain cells that made up your memories of the eighties, I offer an example:)

My hobbyhorse is writing and food, my fetish. Separately developed, it seemed that the twain were never to meet, but one fateful day, far in the past, as  Saddam
Hussein hung his jacket on the second floor coat rack of the Palace of Nebuchadnezzar for the six hundredth and sixty-fourth last time, as George W. choked on his pretzel Laura had slipped playfully into his mouth, the twain met and had cocktails. The liquor went straight to their heads and they copulated wildly on the bed of James Tate's poem, The Wild Cheese. My loves became one love and I became a creative monogamist.

Why am I telling you this?

Because this is the first posting of my new blog and I wanted to make a blogging covenant. I want to create a point of juncture between food and writing. I will bring in edible literary allusions and maybe some recipes, observations, a couple gripes, and the occasional food-based tongue twister. I hope you enjoy reading our blogs.



And remember that your Fringe is ran by our hlǣfdīgen and one or two men. Respect and show the love - visit the magazine, yo.