A nice, non-contentious post, for a change.
If you read many food blogs, you’ve probably noticed the tremendous amount of wittering that precedes any recipe, if and when they actually get around to posting recipes. And when they’re American they get the fucking things wrong anyway; vegetables should never be measured by volume. Whenever I see one of those posts, I want to reach through the screen and strangle someone. It’s the most middle-class bullshit I’ve ever read1. You know the sort of thing:
Mondays are so stressful! I was already jet-lagged after the transatlantic flight from my
vacation; I was in a Tuscan villa, dining with other food bloggers and recipe book writers
that nobody outside of my tiny circle of elitist linked blogs has ever heard of. Despite
the horror of being tired, I had to take Rupert to his morning freestyle Jazz clarinet
lesson then ice dancing—if he doesn’t master both by the time he’s four I’ll feel like a
failure and take it out on him by replacing all signs of love and affection with icy
detachment—but one of the people I was holidaying with showed me this recipe, and it’s
nut-free, carb-free, fat-free, protein-free, completely breatharian, gives your body a
full detox because everyone knows that the kidneys and liver don’t do that anyway, fits
perfectly with the Jurassic diet—which is the next step from paleo and if you eat
anything else you are literally poisoning yourself—and photosynthesises oxygen from the
light of sanctimony that shines out of the arsehole of everyone who understands my perfect
philosophy as revealed to me by Jesus during a whole-spirit wellness cleanse crystal diet.
It’s is the only way for humanity to truly engage with food, and until you’ve done one you
shouldn’t really be allowed to eat…
I’d rather stick a pack of Mentos up my arse and get a Diet Coke enema than read ten paragraphs of this absolute bollocks. I mean, I don’t wish to engage in hyperbole2, but **saying that everyone who writes this drivel should be burned alive is an insult to fire***.
And then they add the ridiculous tarted-up instagram-filtered pictures of food that’s clearly never going to meet the inside of someone’s stomach. It’s food that’s been laid out in the middle of a garden of leaves and seeds, plastered with every kind of crap under the sun to make it look photogenic, with bits of herb gently fluttering onto a bowl like confetti at a wedding or flour photogenically leaping at the sky at the impact of an egg, all shot in an impossibly-clean kitchen the size of an aircraft hangar. Can youse bastards work a camera with broken fingers? Because that’s what you deserve, you complete and utter wankers.
So here’s the deal. If you want a recipe, I’ll bet my left bollock that you don’t give a fuck about how it took so long to perfect but finally made me all tingly inside, because it finally matched the experience of the first time I ate it, even though that was with my trousers round my ankles and a particularly talented Lithuanian prostitute under the table. The reader cannot wait to avoid the absolute arse-ache of reading how a recipe it matches my personal philosophy about precisely how often pigs should be masturbated to yield the perfect pork chop. If a dish I’ve cooked is good enough to cause a spontaneous orgasm or three3 then yeah, I’ll write about how it does that. But I won’t make you scroll through that to find the recipe. On this blog, “How it feels” and “How to make it” each have their separate posts, with cross-links, because I’m not a monster who thinks my experience is more important than your cooking—and who uses that to implicitly shame anyone who finally reaches the recipe, cooks it, and thinks *Is that it? That was a pile of bland toss.”
I will add pictures to recipes. Unlike every other food blog on the motherfucking planet, these pictures are of the plate right before I start eating. Yeah, the plate or bowl’s going to be a bit messy. Deal with it. What you see is what goes into my stomach. 100%, all the time, no bullshit.
And if I break that rule? Self-immolation is a hell of a way to go, but I promise to marinade myself appropriately so you can all get some excellent long-pig sandwiches. Bring your own bread. But maybe avoid the liver….