Fresser

Color me paranoid, but just ASKING if you could chronicle the family's kitchen for all the world to see might be enough to get your ass canned. And I ain't talking in a Mason jar, either. They might legitimately query if you've already done so. Given that you've already stated your first name and vicinity (now changed to: Parts Unkonwn), their identity might not be hard to decipher. Wealthy (and discreet) families might frown on this. On another topic: Bubblehead Chef might empathize with you, albeit on a larger scale. He's a Navy chef aboard a submarine, and while he wants to introduce his sailors to the various & sundry foods of the world, often the sailors won't try anything that looks even remotely unfamiliar or exotic.

"Hamburgers." Take a look at any images of vintage (1955-1968) McDonald's restaurants, and note well the large sign at the front. ← You are right, my brother (Brother?): NOTE: this image is from the public domain, as it was taken from a roadway. Now, of course, to say "McDonald's Hamburgers" is almost a redundancy, as their corporate name is almost synonomous with grilled meat patties. Another example of the erstwhile need for a company's signage to indicate what it sells would be Hooters. This despite the fact that I once saw Hooters' bespectacled owl logo and wandered into their store thinking it was an aviary.

As a twangy Midwesterner, I find the name Curry Hill (a trope on "Murray Hill") to be hilarious! Schlepping down Devon Avenue in Chicago, you'll find various Indian restaurants and kosher eateries, but no kosher Indian restaurants yet.

Mama Fresser and I really should start eating in better restaurants. Or at least ones that can punctuate. We were sitting there, enjoying a breakfast nosh when the insidious advertisement caught my attention. At the tray liner bottom it read verbatim: new Arch Card ™ load it. gift it. love it. First of all, "gift" is NOT a verb. Grant it. Present it. Bestow it, if you want. But I'm sorry, pop-culture grammarians: "gift" is still a noun. So if McDonald's advertising wizards want to create a three-sentence parallel as a tagline, they should learn the parts of speech first. But the atrocities continued. At the top of the liner, the ad copy read: so, what is Arch Card ™? Arch Card ™ is: happy holidays thank you for baby-sitting my kids... i love you as a friend grandpa's morning coffee Notice that their copywriters NEVER capitalize the first word of a sentence. Hello--this is your fourth-grade English teacher calling! Nor do they capitalize the proper noun "Grandpa" in "grandpa's morning coffee" or the pronount "I" in "i love you as a friend." But they ALWAYS capitalize their trademarks, such as Arch Card ™ and of course their company name. Such sticklers they are. What are they telling us? That THEIR trademarks are more important than grandparents and individuals? Oooh...I was so steamed I could barely enjoy my hotcakes and Diet Coke ®.

I like to drink the cookie sludge!

I could use a passel of these Dunky Mugs, as I've been known to submerge everything from hamburger buns to wheat bread. Is there a special edition Tim Tam Slam Mug?

This is entrapment, Jason. Plain and simple. Should the authorities try to prosecute you in court, I shall represent you pro bono, my lack of a law degree notwithstanding. The similarly addictive Peter Luger Steak Sauce is available through retail outlets, and with good reason. Absent this fix, hordes of gravy-boat-wielding carnivores would flee Williamsburg while being chased by angry Lugers waiters. Not a pretty sight.

Women tell me this a lot, Melissa. A woman on a trading floor once called me "Studmuffin." And in "Some Like it Hot," Jack Lemmon observes Marilyn Monroe's sexy walk and declares, "Will you look at that! Look at how she moves! It's like Jell-O on springs!"

My day began innocently enough as Mama Fresser and I enjoyed our breakfast nosh at the mall's food court McDonald's. I stood in line for a refill of Diet Coke when I spied the unlikely perpetrator: a youngish lass, maybe 20 years of age, clutching an unwrapped Subway sandwich. "What's she doing here?" I thought. "If Subway forgot an ingredient on her sandwich, they're in the other direction." Thus did I watch in horror as the lass, with great insouciance, strolled to the McDonald's counter and doused her Subway sandwich with barbecue sauce from the McDonald's self-service pump. "Condiment thief!" I shouted after the lass. She turned to me, snarled, and brandished her chicken breast sandwich as a weapon, intimating that such battles are best fought in the media, not in the mall. So here will I present my grievance and warn of an impending sandwich sauce crime wave. Savvy marketers that they are, fast-food chains are keen to the threat of conspicuous condiment consumption. McDonald's manager Thorsten Veblen noted that his store charges 5 cents for each ketchup or dipping sauce the customer requests in excess of two packages, calling customers who dispute the surcharge "(P)arasites on the capitalist host. Ketchup may be a vegetable, but it certainly isn't free." Acknowledging the experimental Serve Your Own Sauce Station, Veblen posits the existence of the Saucy Equilibrium, whereby bourgeois sandwich-eaters balance the transaction costs of excess auto-dispensing with the indifference cost of schlepping a dozen ketchup packets in their satchels. Not being a trained economist, I take the sociological view that a crime wave may be taking root at our local hamburger stand. After all, why stop at barbecue sauce? Hot dog stand owners may soon invaded by the Mustard Marauders preparing for their 4th of July picnics. Why stand in the grocery line to purchase your Plochman's when you can just swipe some from the local wienermeister? I also fear that seafood restaurants are not immune. Next time you're at Arthur Treacher's enjoying your fried fish and hush puppies, be on the look out for the Tartar Sauce Gang and the Vinegar Vixens warring over their turf. All I know is, the next time I see a non-customer taking condiments from a restaurant, I'm calling Interpol.

Mu gai, Karen. Ji duo qian gai mee? Duo cai, Fresser

Only if you share with all the girls. And me.

Let Fresser come to the rescue! Since the glasses have colored, ah, stems (?), make Jello parfaits by filling the glasses with alternating flavors of Jello. Just chill between layers! And don't forget the dollop of Cool Whip on top! I bet Rachel Ray never thought of this.

Oy, what a shonda to even think of a porkathon! Now a shtup-a-thon, that's more like it! True to my tribal roots, shtup-a-thons and even noogie sessions are often followed by trays of smoked fish, onion rolls, cream cheese and extra-pulpy orange juice. We save the fried chicken for more sedate refueling sessions. Now Diva, darling: just what is a "Shvester," anyway? You couldn't mean schvartze, could you?

One of my favorite characters on the T.V. show "Barney Miller" was Detective Yemana, played by Jack Soo, himself a Chinese Jew. Yemana was known to use pencils from his desk as makeshift chopsticks. Once, however, he peered into his box of takeout and murmured, "Oh, no. I ate my eraser!" As far as ordering the fried rice, Duck, I usually fire up the wok and make it myself. However, my Cantonese vocabulary consists of just one word: gai! A Jewish Chinese Brother's gotta eat! So

That would explain my stunning lack of athleticism. But you might be on to something, McDuff. Super Bowl Shuffle frontman William "Refrigerator" Perry was known to wolf down large amounts of fried chicken when away from the football field. In fact, a reporter visited a diner where the Fridge often enjoyed his repast and asked the waitress, "So, how much chicken did Mr. Perry eat?" "He ate a MESS of chicken!" replied the waitress. "Well, how much did he eat, Miss? Four pieces? Six pieces? Eight?" "He ate, well...he ate a MESS of chicken!!" the waitress stammered. Here I see a possible ethnic connection. Puddin' Buns and I often would commandeer the corner booth at Brown's Chicken and order the 10-piece family dinner (dark meat, please) with side orders that typically included cole slaw, biscuits and (are you listening, Sandy) macaroni and cheese. Now, Puddin' Buns weighed all of 145 lbs. soaking wet, but between the two of us, we demolished that spread in a way that would make the Fridge proud. Further muddying (or clarifying) the issue, the lily-white Puddin' Buns would often greet me by saying, "What's up, brother from another Mother?" I must go look at myself in the mirror now. I'll look REAL hard...

Given my broad-shouldered build, I tend to look like half of the Hans und Franz duo when I wear sweats. Combine that with my Spongebob crying pillow and I look like a pubescent member of the East German womens' swim team. Time for a group portrait? As far as the eye candy, Genny, I presume you mean Tyson--and I ain't talkin' Tyson chicken, Girlfriend! So what does that make me--an eye appetizer, at least?

You'd be suprised what a simple piece of protein can say about you. I was sitting there, minding my own business and enjoying a rotisserie chicken lunch from the grocery across from work. This was a common choice of foodstuffs for me, given that it came with tasty side orders and often lasted for two or three meals. My astute black co-worker Freddie had been studying my eating habits, however, and he looked at me and blurted, "Man, you're worse than a Brother!" I nearly fell out of my chair, laughing--but taking care not to drop my drumstick. Freddie himself is partial to potato wedges for lunch, although he often gets a carbohydrate buzz from them. But Freddie's unmasking me as an Undercover Brother got me thinking. When Freddie called me "Brother," was he keen to something that I myself had missed? Hell, I'm so white, I used to think crackers were named after me! But the evidence is mounting. I had an English professor at the U. of Chicago who, to me at least, strongly resembled Colonel Sanders. And while in high school, my chum Puddin' Buns and I often bonded over jazz music and boxes of dark meat from Church's Chicken. You think green bean casserole is a Caucasian bonding ritual, Sandy? Try getting GBC from the drive-through at Brown's. So while Sandy mulls over his "Inner Oreo," I sit eyeing my olive skin and wonder about my putative lineage to Poland and Lithuania. Is there some African in this American? Is my predilection for poultry really the siren-song of a long-lost Ehtiopian Jew? I'll never look at an Original Recipe bucket the same way again.

The Duck went to Hahvahd? (Radcliffe?) I would imagine the soup du jour there would be clam chowder, not cream o' mushroom.

I have taken the pledge, Genny, and I eagerly await the rest of the initiation rituals. Since Tyson is wearing the chef's whites, what should I wear, Genny? I don't want to show up Tyson or anything...

You mean you didn't inhale the casserole? For shame!

Remember the buffet scene where Officer Marge Gunderson piles her tray high with steam-table goodies? Surely some green bean casserole found its way onto her plate.

They all look just like they did when they were 30. It's part of the deal, I think. ← Are any of them single? I love women who wear red and purple.

Revolting as this concept sounds, I must point out that Bac-o-Bits® sold at the store are actually kosher. They're made from soybeans and they carry the hechser (or symbol of kashruth). Also, there's a Yiddish expression for something that tries to pass for the real thing but isn't quite right: kosher chozzer fissel. I'll leave it up to Bloviatrix to translate this verbal chestnut. This concludes our daily dose of erudition. (Not bad for someone who didn't go to Harvard...right, Sandy?)

Surely you mean, "Beware of men with gorgeous gams driving PT Cruisers!" And since we've broached the subject in the "Wild Women" thread, let it be known that Pontormo herself wants me to dress up and join the Ladies Who Lunch brigade. Just where DO they sell the red hat & purple dress ensemble, RachelD?

Au contraire, my fellow monotheist. Tuna casserole is a staple dish in the Jewish household as well, prepared with Creamettes elbow macaroni, tunafish cream o' mushroom soup and (of course)...frozen peas! I must have consumed this dish once a month growing up in the Tribal 'hood of West Rogers Park in Chicago. And yes, green bean casserole held its honored position at the Fresser Family Thanksgiving this year, with my sister preparing the back-of-the-label dish.