An analysis in the January 2013 issue of Consumer Reports magazine revealed 69% of pork chops and ground pork that the organization sampled from around the U.S. tested positive for Yersinia enterocolitica, a bacteria that, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), can result in fever, abdominal pain and diarrhea.
Consumer Reports also found 3-7% of the samples harbored salmonella, staphylococcus aureus or listeria monocytogenes, other common pathogens for foodborne illness. Twenty-three percent of the samples contained none of the tested bacteria.
Of the 198 samples, the organization found other alleged complications with the "other white meat." The sampling also claims that some of the bacteria were resistant to typical antibiotics that are used to treat foodborne illnesses, such as amoxicillin, penicillin, tetracycline and streptomycin. Of the 132 samples with Yersinia enterocolitica, 121 of those were resistant to one or more antibiotics.
"The frequent use of low-dose antibiotics in pork farming may be accelerating the growth of drug-resistant 'superbugs' that threaten human health," said Consumer Reports.
So, you’ve arrived in the Sceptered Isles and you’re thirsty for some local culture. No use looking in the Tower, the Globe or the British Museum.
Forget about Piccadilly Circus and the London Eye, too: they’re all full of tourists.
To rub shoulders with the folks who actually live there, head for a pub.
For centuries, the pub (short for “public house,” as opposed to a members’ club) has been the heart of the United Kingdom’s social life. People gather for gossip and banter, chatting and flirting or just to drink, whether solo or in groups.
You’re free to sit or stand, talk or contemplate, people watch (careful with that, though) or just mind your own business. All for the price of a beer.
That, however, is where it gets a bit complicated: it’s hard to order when you don’t know the terminology or how things work.
Everything tasted better when my grandma was around.
Growing up, we didn't get to see my dad's side of the family all that often, but I noticed at some point that all the food we ate in Grandma Kinsman's presence was exponentially more delicious. Later on, I came to realize that it wasn't due to some special grandmotherly mojo, but rather that she used real butter rather than margarine, and my family shopped accordingly when she was in town.
No matter the ingredients, I was predisposed to enjoy her cooking. I loved her and she loved me, her weird, short-haired, misfit granddaughter, even if the rest of the world wasn't inclined to. Seldom did I feel that love so strongly as when her yearly shipment of holiday cookies arrived.
While you're frying up some eggs and bacon, we're cooking up something else: a way to celebrate today's food holiday.
November 28 is National French Toast Day!
Whether swimming in syrup, dusted with powered sugar or stuffed to the gills with fruit, French toast has had a recurring role on breakfast tables for many years - or possibly even centuries. One of the earliest references to the recipe dates back to 4th century Rome in the recipe book, "Apicius."
The Oxford English Dictionary traces the etymology of “French toast” to 1660 in a book called "The Accomplisht Cook," even though the recipe omitted the eggs which gives French toast the custard base that we love so much.
Contraband alcohol is believed to have sickened at least seven Arizona inmates, who are receiving antitoxins for suspected botulism poisoning, officials said Tuesday.
Pinal County communications director Heather Murphy said inmates began showing symptoms at the Arizona State Prison Complex Eyman in Florence.
Four inmates become seriously ill Saturday. By Monday, seven inmates were in intensive care, all suffering from some form of paralysis, officials said.
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About six months ago, I found myself standing in the middle of the International Rescue Committee’s New Roots community farm in the City Heights section of San Diego. It was there that I met Luchia, a refugee from Uganda who now lives with her daughters in City Heights. She is one of the strongest, most determined women I have ever met, so beautiful and proud.
She was there to meet me, show me her garden plot, and then, take me home to cook traditional Ugandan fare. When we met it was actually a little chilly out and her natural instinct was to wrap her arms around me, making sure that her scarf was wrapped around me too. Needless to say, it was an instant connection and she welcomed me within a heartbeat.
Over the past five years the IRC has been building its New Roots program – a program which connects refugees, newly arrived in the United States, with the land and helps them integrate into their communities. To date, the IRC has been able to establish community gardens and farms in 11 of the 22 cities where they help refugees restart the lives.
Sink your teeth into this week's top stories from around the globe.
Dunkin' Donuts' bid to tout their java exclusively as "Best coffee in America" has been refused by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office on the grounds that the desired trademark is "merely laudatory and descriptive of the alleged merit of applicant’s services and the goods featured therein," according to the Boston Globe.
For those readers not in the habit of deeply perusing the USPTO's website as part of their leisure reading, "coffee" is defined as "a hot, slightly bitter drink made by pouring hot water over brown powder consisting of coffee beans that have been ground" and "best" as "used for referring to the person or thing that is the most satisfactory, appropriate, pleasant, effective, of the highest quality, etc."
Here in the cold, dark, horrible nub end months of the year, I jam clementines into my mouth like it's my job. Two, four, six at a sitting, I'll dig the edge of my least-ragged nail into the rind and claw away the loose skin to reveal the dewy, seedless segments inside. Rinds pile up in pungent heaps on every flat surface around me - exoskeletons shed by sweet-blooded alien insects that have come to Earth to lift me from my seasonal funk.
I'd stop and take them to a trash bin, but that would mean precious seconds not spent stuffing oranges into my face in the manner of a crazed bonobo. I will set upon a cheap, plywood crate or red net sack full of clementines and dispatch quarters, thirds, halves at a time until there is nothing left but a fine mist of citrus oil coating all nearby surfaces like a cheery arterial spray.
I am certain it is horrifying to watch, and it is in the best interest of all my personal and professional relationships that these little fruits are only available for a brief period each winter.