I know how this scene goes. You stroll into the convenience store looking for your typical travel snacks: Teriyaki beef jerky, pepperoni pizza Combos and a Diet Dr. Pepper. And as you peruse the aisle just to make sure there's not a sweet treat that suits your fancy, you catch a glimpse of some canned goods: microwavable beef ravioli, potted meat, and Vienna Sausages.
"Bleh, Vienna sausages. Seriously? Who in the world eats that?"
Allow myself to introduce myself. My name is Jeremy Harlan and I do love me some Vienna Sausages. They are my perfect finger snack for long driving assignments. And in my humble opinion, they are a cornerstone of any quality convenience store. (I'm talking to you, Sheetz.)
Why do I like them? I can't give a specific reason, I just enjoy prying them out of the can and eating them one by one.
Video producer Jarrett Bellini covers comedy for CNN. He has a really lustrous red beard.
I'm still not exactly sure how it's pronounced.
It's either POO-teen or PUT-sin. Or it could also be something completely different. I generally don't get things.
But however you say it, poutine is going to slowly (and deliciously) kill Canadians one at a time in a long nationwide drum circle of exploding aortas.
Trust me. It will happen eventually...and it'll totally be worth it!
More from KRDO
If you see my colleague Jo Parker striding toward you with a jar of peanut butter - beware. Chances are, she's got a Vidalia onion hidden somewhere on her person, and she's gonna try to make you eat these things together on bread.
She means well, and she's just trying to spread the love of a childhood favorite. As Jo wrote to me, "The cool, crunchy sweetness of Vidalias pairs terrifically with the peanuttiness. Smooth or crunchy – up to you. I remember eating these as a girl in Illinois, but I really don’t know the sandwich’s pedigree."
Now, most people would be content to enjoy their idiosyncratic creation behind closed doors. A strange sandwich is a private pleasure, borne of tradition, unsupervised youthful experimentation, between-paycheck thrift or, let's face it, coming home wicked hammered and having the wherewithal the next morning to recall an effective combination of ingredients.
The intern with the shaved head was on her phone in the bathroom again. She seemed to regard the third floor ladies room at our office as her personal rec room which was...fine, if somewhat unnervingly intimate on occasion. I realized, though, that I'd severely, thoroughly, grossly underestimated her level of one-ness with these particular environment on the day several years ago when I saw her emerge from a stall, eating cereal. From a bowl. With milk.
I get it - we're all busy people, caught up in this topsy-turvy, whiz-bang work world where news breaks in 140 character bites and we can gulp down songs, books, TV shows and films the second they burble to mind. It's a miracle that any of us can find a spare five minutes to brush our teeth, apply footwear and haul our info-riddled carcasses to our desks, but still, one should always find time to eat somewhere other than a public toilet. That's my wide, solid stance and I'm sticking to it.
Hi, my name is Linda and I am a compulsive shopper at membership big box stores.
Right now I am composting several avocados, half a ginormous bag of baby carrots and some celery in my refrigerator - along with some shriveled up oranges and some garlic that is growing roots. I bought it all in bulk because it was SUCH A DEAL!
And I must confess to using my refrigerator way too often for accidentally composting produce that was so pretty and sold at great prices at the store where I am a member.
Here's why: A mango a day – doesn’t quite work the same healthy magic that an apple a day does.
Dear next door neighbors,
I'm sure you are lovely and upstanding citizens, generous of spirit and cup and plate. I've not yet met you in person, but seemingly your friends come over each weekend to bask in the warm glow of your hospitality. They're surely not there for the food.
How do I know, without ever having tasted, that the things you grill have a flavor akin to scrapings from the crumb tray of Satan's toaster oven? Well, because each Saturday or Sunday afternoon since you moved in, at around five o'clock, my whippet, who's usually been basking in the dappled sunlight on the chaise by the back window suddenly stands bolt upright, sniffs furiously and flees toward the front of the apartment. Dogs, in my experience, tend to run in the direction of cooking meat, but she can hardly be blamed in this case.
You may not know this, because seemingly there's some sort of hell-borne current that guides airflow only in the direction of your house to mine, but your grill produces an acrid, evil smoke that vaults the eight foot fence between our backyards, hangs a sharp 90 degrees and roils into my kitchen until I can no longer breathe. Twice already, I have had to postpone my own dinner preparations and leave the house because the fumes - your fumes - were giving me a stabbing headache.
And you're doing all this with a gas grill. How in the world is that possible?
I have a few theories.
5@5 is a daily, food-related list from chefs, writers, political pundits, musicians, actors, and all manner of opinionated people from around the globe.
Editors' Note: We are in no way endorsing the usage of the "wacky tobacky."
In fact, his refined comfort food is often dubbed "stoner food" when it has been reviewed by critics. Brian Friedman wrote in his Philadelphia Weekly review that, "Ah, hell, it's 'food for stoners"' and "Adsum takes so-called 'stoner food' to places it has never been before."
Levin is no stranger to making the news with, shall we say, mood-altering substances. You may recognize him as the Philadelphia chef that threw the Four Loko-themed dinner party back in December.
But instead of a nice Loko-vore lady, looks like your dinner date is with Mary Jane.
Five Stoner Foods: Matt Levin
The Vintage Cookbook Vault highlights recipes from my insane stash of books and pamphlets from the early 20th century onward. It's a semi-regular thing.
Good gravy, do I love vintage cookbooks. As much as I love getting my mitts on the newest, glossiest, most porn-glutted, celebrity chef-penned doorstoppers (Noma, you shall yet be mine...), poring over ingredient lists and making animalistic noises at pictures of clever terrines and various roasted things, I rarely use the recipes. They serve as inspiration, to be sure, but those pages will, with a few notable exceptions, remain pristine.
Most of the real war horses in my kitchen are spiral and comb-bound community cookbooks and old product pamphlets. As I've said before, at their best, they transcend time and space to provide a window into kitchens long ago and far away, and are generally guaranteed to work because they're either someone's show-off recipe or have been tested to heck and back in a commercial kitchen.
There are exceptions.