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Fig. 1
Gorge 2
I don’t have any guilt. —Julia Child on guilty pleasures
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HELP YOURSELF
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hen I was 12, my dad took me to New York. We made the usual plans: We saw a Broadway show. We walked through Central Park. We climbed the stairs of the Statue of the Liberty. We saw and did what you’re supposed to see and do. The thing was, all of those moments and views — from the crown of Liberty, to the top of the Empire State Building — were our attempts to cover up what we were really in New York to do: We had come to the city for the cheesecake. I can’t remember a single song from Annie Get Your Gun, but even now I can conjure the New York Style-cheesecake I tasted before the show: the light, mousse-y, creaminess; the cookie crust; the sweet raspberry drizzle that swirled in my mouth. Then there was the cheesecake we devoured while watching Saturday Night Live in the swanky St. Regis hotel after a room service dinner of cheeseburgers and fries. So straightforwardly rich and decadent. And the to-go box of cheesecake that rested between us in the cab while my dad pointed up-up-up (Look! Can you see?) to the top of the World Trade Center. I don’t think I have ever loved dessert more than the cheesecakes I tried in New York. They were the purest of pleasures. So fleeting. We knew very well that you couldn’t eat cheesecake all the time, but for those three Big Apple days, we did our best to truly partake in the dessert that bears its city’s name. In terms of the vice, my experience with cheesecake was innocent. Uncomplicated. A food relationship of only the happiest ingredients. If only the things we eat stayed so sweet. In this issue, we attempt to demystify the vice by exploring themes of guilt, pleasure, pain, addiction, needing and wanting — desperately wanting. We learn that as a behavior and a tool, the vice is a complicated vehicle of power. We see that guilt is a messy spiderweb comprised of our past and present. We see ourselves at our worst. And our best is a constant struggle to not want more. We learn that even vegan cheesecake can taste good, and that consumption is much more than chewing and swallowing. Love is, perhaps, a strong word to use in the context of an issue dedicated to vices, but I do hope you enjoy the stories inside. Although they come from many places, they share one thing: The ability to maintain humor, even in our most gluttonous hours. Despite sampling the occasional cheesecake here and there, I have tried to leave the dessert back where it belongs, on 5th Avenue. But every once in a while, I cannot resist the temptation to dip back into the glorious memory of a father and daughter exploring and ordering their way through the offerings of a new city. Nothing could be more satisfying than a slice of that. 5
I’ll Have My Vegan Cheesecake And Eat It Too by Kristin Noe
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love cheese. I mean — I really love cheese. I love the way a chunk of sharp cheddar sticks to your mouth and almost makes you feel full. I love sucking brie straight off a knife before it even makes it onto a cracker. I love Velveeta-based queso dip, mozzarella-filled Chicago-style pizza, and eating cottage cheese straight from the container. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been lactose intolerant for eight years. The thing about being lactose intolerant is that it isn’t black and white — it isn’t all or nothing. Sometimes I can eat a sandwich with a couple slices of provolone and have it go completely unnoticed, but other times, some creamy dairy will slip its way into my breakfast potatoes, and I am left writhing in pain for the rest of the day (not to mention the other uncomfortable and unflattering symptoms). It took me years to even begin to understand what I can and cannot eat, and I’m fairly confident being lactose intolerant is something that I will never completely master. After eight years, I am happy to have figured out (at the very least) this: I will never be able to drink regular cow’s milk, eat ice cream or cream cheese, or taste the slick buttery flavor of something cooked in the stuff. Most people never stop to think about what they are eating and how it will make them feel later because, simply, they don’t have to. They enjoying eating for the instantaneous pleasure that it should be. They know that the first bite of something is always the best, and that powerful flavors on a blank palette awaken senses and create memories. Sadly for me, the act of eating mostly reminds me of my high school boyfriend — exciting and consuming in the moment, but never worth the pain. The problem then, and now, is that when pain is delayed, it’s rarely attributed to the actual cause. Whenever I think I have learned to say no, I am sucked back into a disappointment of my own making. It is an understatement to say I have a strained relationship with food. Yet, I truly believe all is well that ends well. What I thought was a death sentence at age 16 was actually a rebirth. It kept me away from the fro-yo machine in my college dining hall (and away from the dreaded Freshman 15), and taught me to find delicious food choices that aren’t dipped in butter, cloaked in cheese sauce or covered with a whipped topping. I have learned the true pleasure of eating and cooking with fresh ingredients and am interested in where my food comes from. I’m not a machine though. I still crave dairy and allow myself cheese on a sandwich, but I have given up on the idea that I will ever be a regular twenty something who can go out for pizza and beers without thought. Most importantly though, I have come to realize that I don’t have it nearly as bad as many others do — after all, I can still have my vegan cheesecake and eat it too. 7
yneos!! Fig. 2
Cheese 8
n e v e r ! n yo ew s! Fig. 3
Peanut Butter 9
Fluff-Filled Long Johns by Sarah Handelman
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y 8 a.m. on New Year’s Day, I have 800 calories under my belt. My eyes drift towards the blue box in the passenger seat, which until 20 seconds ago, held my New Year’s Day Donut. I stare longingly at the empty, cardboard void, blindly hoping that another, calorie-less version will magically appear. I’ve just finished my favorite donut: a white-fluff-filled, chocolatetopped Long John from LaMars on Main. And it will be, as it has been for the past four years, my only donut for the next 365 days. The details now are fuzzy, but the New Years Day Donut was no accident. In undergrad, I met Joseph, my best friend. He was slow to reveal himself, but over the first couple of years we knew each other, I learned that Joseph grew up on a farm in a pea-sized town in Southern Missouri. Once his dad gave him a cow as a present. Though he never saw it get taken for slaughter, he was allowed to keep the money from the sale. But this is beside the point. In high school, Joseph woke at dawn not to go to work on his family’s farm, but to drive into the blazing citrus Nevada sunrise, where he would work the early-bird drive-thru at Daylight Donuts. I love to imagine my friend, in a white paper cap and white apron, sneaking bites of powdery donut holes and answering the drive-thru window with sticky fingers. Joseph had also worked in steel-toed boots at a box factory, and although he wasn’t one to display enthusiasm or utter disdain for a particular line of work, he was always a little more cheerful when he remembered those mornings at Daylight Donuts.
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Though the wildlife in our backyards differed (Joe had cattle; we had an unexplained peacock called Feathers), we have both always loved food. And we share a very special love for breakfast of the glazed and sprinkled variety. The once-a-year donut began as a once-every-three-months donut. After a rigorous semester that resulted in sickeningly good GPA’s (we were both a bit too studious for our own good), we rewarded ourselves. On the chosen Saturday morning, we’d drive south of Columbia to Dixie Cream. Even from the car, the fragrance of well beaten sugar, butter and eggs enveloped our senses. Willpower-less, we followed the scented trail inside the shop, where glass cases of cinnamon bear claws, Bavarian creams and sugary donut holes beckoned to us. We could feel the soft dough under our teeth, how it pillowed luxuriously against our gums and built a salivaic goo that molded to the roofs of our mouths. The donuts were so sweet they stung our throats. Every time we peered into the glass cases, we ached to try something different — strawberry cake donut with rainbow sprinkles; chocolate cruller with coffee — but always, we resisted. The comfort of a fluff-filled, chocolate-topped Long John was too great. Unfortunately, the donuts were always better in theory. We’d order, pay our 70 cents, and before leaving the parking lot, we would have nearly finished our reward. From the parked car, heated debates arose regarding whether we should go buy another. We finished too fast, and the actual taste never lived up to our expectations. After the sugar haze dissipated, we decided we were eating too many donuts each year, and that perhaps cutting our intake down to one would put the pastry back on its pedestal. Regarding donuts, I have only happy memories. As a six-year-old I’d wait for my father to come home with a weekend bounty of LaMar’s donuts to accompany my glass of milk and Saturday morning cartoons. When I was a little older, we’d stop by the donut shop on Friday mornings before school. He’d buy a dozen to share with his office, and I’d get one for the road: a sugar-topped, strawberry jelly-filled donut. In his red Ford truck, I’d eat half of the donut and try to avoid dripping the sticky berry goo on my jeans. The other half was saved until after recess. I cannot recall the taste, but the act of looking through the glass case and choosing — always with the fear that I’d choose wrong — is embedded in my memory. It is this delicious ritual that sticks to my ribs. Back in the parking lot, I realize that LaMar’s on Main is an odd place to begin a new year, but I’m not one for resolutions. I check the very empty box for any donut remnants: all gone. Probably for the best. It will take all year to work-off this celebratory indulgence. Considering this morning’s hangover, the yearly donut is a tradition that always looks better than it tastes. Still, I cannot resist revisiting the glass case of fluff-filled, chocolate-topped memories. Next January 1st, perhaps I’ll try something new. 12
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I associate vice with guilt. I feel guilty a lot. Here are a few things that make me feel guilty. Hence, here are a few of my vices…. Watching television. Watching Rachel Ray “cook” on television. Watching Paula Deen cook. Watching Paula Deen cook and fantasizing about eating what Paula Deen eats. Watching anything on MTV. Eating any type fast food. Eating fried food. I’m looking at you fries, pickles and okra. Eating dessert. Eating half of bag of pretzel sticks in one sitting. Eating half a bag of anything in one sitting. Eating too fast. Eating trans fats. Eating saturated fat. Eating non-organic foods. Eating red meat. Especially hamburgers. Fine, eating all meat. Eating anything after talking to a vegan for too long. Eating non-wild caught fish. Eating food from cans lined with BPA. Not really knowing what exactly BPA is. Buying things. Buying things likely produced by pre-teens in third world countries. 18
Buying things “just because.� Buying coffee when I could make it. Buying food when I could make it. Buying anything when I could make it. Buying brand name instead of generic or store-brand products. Buying things based on packaging. Going to big box stores and getting a cart. Putting gas in my car. Turning the heat up an extra degree (or two). Staying in the shower for an extra few minutes. Not paying bills early. Procrastinating. Insisting on lavender-scented laundry detergent. Leaving lights and appliances on for too long. Leaving my cats alone for too long. Leaving my boyfriend alone for too long. Not calling my mom (or brother) for a few days. Taking my time emailing people back. Not always wanting to call my extended family. Not writing thank you notes. Not making thank you phone calls. Not writing thank you emails. Seeing other people do things that I consider the right thing to be doing. Watching informercials about workout videos. Driving by yoga studios and gyms and not instantly stopping to work out. Sitting on the couch for longer than one hour. 19
“I can taste-smell-hear-see and then feel between my teeth the potato chips I ate slowly one November afternoon in 1936, in the bar of Lausanne Palace. They were uneven in both thickness and color ... and almost surely they smelled faintly of either chicken or fish, for that was always the case there. They were a little too salty, to encourage me to drink. They were ineffable. I am still nourished by them.” — M.F.K. FISHER, “Once A Tramp, Always...” THE NEW YORKER, 1968 21
— A Recipe —
These Eggs Will Scramble You by Tom Loughlin
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or a year or so I was hopelessly committed and addicted to making what I will likely forever stand by as the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever. Unfortunately the Best Scrambled Eggs Ever did not agree with my digestive system in the slightest. This did not stop me devouring them in worryingly large quantities most weeks, and almost daily through the winter. My willpower had dwindled to nothing. I was a junkie. Serving sizes expanded beyond what would be necessary to sustain a professional athlete. Afternoons spent clutching my stomach and desperately seeking out the nearest restroom were commonplace. When spring arrived the thought of staying within sprinting distance of a bathroom quickly became hugely depressing. It was time to say goodbye. We’d had a good run (ew — sorry), but it was over. ingredients 2-4 Eggs (don’t judge me) Salt & Pepper to taste (preferably yours) 25g Butter 2 Tbs Crème fraiche (or sour cream, or — if you’re a pussy — milk) 2 Rashers of Bacon 1-2 slices of chunky, rustic bread Encona Hot Pepper Sauce method Fry or grill the bacon to your liking and do the same with the bread. Add the butter to a small, non-stick pan and put the heat on low. Crack the eggs into the pan, before the butter has melted. Stir the eggs till the yolk and whites are combined. Turn the heat up a little and slowly stir, maintaining a sauce-like consistency. Continue stirring until the eggs thicken, then remove from the heat, add the crème frache and the salt and pepper and let them cook in the pan for a minute or so, folding occasionally. The eggs should be creamy and just cooked. Pour the eggs over the toast. Chop up the bacon and toss it on top. Splatter the lot with a tiny amount of hot sauce. If you’re lucky, the the prospect of devouring creamy, half-cooked scrambled eggs will leave you feeling nothing but mild revulsion and digestive pity. You’re missing out. But you’ll probably feel better for it. 23
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My vice,
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Anti-Food by A Connoiasseur
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hen I was 18, I met my first boyfriend at a New Year’s Eve party. He was visiting from New York, and our friends told us we had to meet because, well, we were both gay. Although he wasn’t exactly my type — blonde, fit, a bit of a butter face — he was single, and I was downing shots of Admiral Nelson like they were candy. Midnight came and went, as did our initial vigor to drink and Taboo the night away; people started to drift toward couches and blow-up mattresses. My best girlfriend dared me to crawl into bed with him, but I didn’t need her to. My bloodstream was teeming with confidence. Being two teenage boys, we were novices at relationships. We had survived one semester of the college gay dating scene (read: drunk closeted guys and weekends-only-commitment-phobes) and knew what opportunities didn’t await us upon our return. We weren’t exactly compatible, but we liked to touch each other. We wanted something serious, and we wanted each other’s cock. New Year’s Eve turned into spring break, which turned into summer vacation, and then winter break again. Before we knew it, our mutual romantic disinterest in each other, paired with our immense gratification from each other’s body, equaled out to be something like a year and a half. Despite the many details of our personalities that repelled us from each other, our energetic libidos seemed to keep everything in some sort of balance. We were addicted to pleasure and few things got in the way of us feeling good: our emotions, long distance, even gross anatomy. Which is why I didn’t hesitate when he asked me to shave my ass so he could eat it. I’ll be the first to admit that gay sex, generally speaking, is a little offputting. The main event revolves around a body part that discharges the smelly remains of what we eat. Sticking a finger or a penis in this off-limits wasteland is one thing—they’re accustomed to dirty jobs and can be scrubbed with soap and antibacterial hand sanitizer afterward. Voluntarily plunging your face, tongue and dignity into someone’s asshole, on the other hand, seems… just unpalatable. 27
At least in theory. Whether it was from awakening nerve endings from a two-decade hibernation or from engaging in an unspeakable, reprehensible taboo, eating ass and having my ass eaten was nothing short of incredible. It was like re-getting my first kiss, but at the right end: I came six times. For a while, I needed nothing else from him. Eating each other’s ass was all I craved. But in time, getting eaten out lost its appeal. It required maintenance—shaving, showering, avoiding roughage—that wasn’t always worth the outcome. I spent more time worrying about how repulsive I might be than letting go and reveling in the moment. Eating ass, though, was just the contrary. Any aversion I encountered failed to deter me. I inhaled hasty wipe jobs, I developed morning-after sore throats, I pushed my nose to its maximum tailbone weight capacity. I even had a fart expelled directly in my face. None of it mattered; I was fixated. Eating ass turned me on in a way that nothing else could. Sadly, he wasn’t around much. So more often than I got to feast on him, I had to nibble on memories—or binge on porn. And from this disconnected, deprived voyeur position, I got to reflect on what exactly I found desirable about eating ass. In certain ways, it seemed to provide something that I lacked within my gay masculinity and my non-straight sex. Even though my heterosexual counterparts were doubtfully filling their mouths with what I was, the act of eating ass rather than sucking dick made me feel more like a man. It was an art that I hadn’t ever practiced but that somehow felt natural. Different from them, though, my tastes weren’t conventional. My palate was exotic: I ate the anti-food. Something, I thought, most of them wouldn’t dare try. And the idea that I derived pleasure from putting in my mouth something so unanimously inedible gave me great satisfaction. Eating ass was beyond manly; eating ass was delicious. Now, years later, much remains the same. My sexual appetite remains crudely anchored at the bottom, but my tastes for what lies above have been refined. I still eat ass whenever it’s on hand, but not just anyone’s, and certainly not his. Some vices aren’t worth the mundane conversations that follow. For everything else, there’s mouthwash. 28
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stg oo p! Fig. 4
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the
peanut
solut
t butter
tion by Sarah Handelman
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hat day in March was one of the first warm days of the season. A breeze whispered through the screen door and whistled across the eggshell-colored, magnet-less metal cabinets of my kitchen. Early spring breathed on the back of my hot neck and wrapped its invisible arms around my blotchy, tearstained face like a cold compress. I stood barefoot in the kitchen and cried. I was sick of laying out the fucking Tarmac Times and designing ads for construction equipment that looked like sex toys. For the second time that week, I had caught one of my bosses staring at my boobs. I didn’t say anything because I was scared I’d cry. I was ready to leave, but I was stuck in my lease, and in twenty minutes I needed to go to yoga, but “Fuck yoga!” I sobbed. Instead I opened the pantry. I pulled out the jar of Peter Pan Extra Crunchy Honey Roasted Peanut Butter. I unscrewed the red top and dipped my index finger into the jar’s contents. The warm, oily, sticky goo swallowed my finger from the big knuckle down, willing all of me into the plastic container and reluctantly letting me go when I began to pull out. I stuck my finger in my mouth and scraped the spread away, grazing skin with my teeth and sucking hard to consume every smeared remnant. I did it once more. Then one more time after that. And one more time. And one more time. And one more time, until I couldn’t reach any farther into the jar. I grabbed a spoon and shoveled. And when I could no longer shovel, I scraped the plastic sides with a small rubber spatula. In 10 minutes, I devoured the entire jar. For an extended moment I was calm, rational. I was prepared to write the day off as a bad one. But in the same time it took to inhale the stuff, my stomach began to churn. I felt pregnant with a jar-sized peanut butter baby. 32
For three days I couldn’t eat. I didn’t need to go to yoga — my spare moments were spent doing downward dogs and researching other positions that would hasten digestion. My crappy job and crappy lease were the least of my worries. I cried some more. My favorite snack had ruined me. And between farts that smelled like fermented sandwiches, I wondered how I had allowed things to get this bad. It started in elementary school. Between the hours of 11 a.m. and 1 p.m., the blue and yellow-striped basketball court of the gymnasium became a blue and yellow-striped basketball court littered with empty Ziplock bags, cast away notes from moms and the smeared frosting of Hostess Ho-Ho’s. Long bench-tables were unfolded, rolled out, sanitized and locked into wobbling brown rows. Lunchtimes were scheduled in 25-minute intervals, and the prospect of being allowed to talk freely with 12-inch voices for nearly one half hour was almost too much to bear. We sat side-by-side, furiously wiggling like panting puppies, zipping and unzipping our lunchboxes, listening in wonder to the fantastic lies of the table’s ringleader and anxiously awaiting a bathroom break. In distracted kidland, lunch was hardly enough time to remember we were hungry. The contents of my lunchbox were more or less identical to those of my classmates: A Surfer Cooler Capri-Sun. Peeled baby carrots. One fun-size bag of Nacho Cheesier Doritos. One Jello Swirl pudding cup. A spoon. A paper napkin. We all, though, ate different sandwiches. Sarah Bradley’s turkey sandwich oozed with more mayonnaise than meat or white bread. Others brought Pizza Lunchables, and we watched with quiet jealousy as they sprinkled the ten whole pieces of shredded mozzarella onto a sauced, coaster-sized surface which, in retrospect, tasted more like plastic than dough. A majority of us brought variations on a theme of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Stephanie ate hers on buttered potato bread. Kara liked creamy. Sara liked Jiff. One kid bragged that his mom used Smucker’s Goober, but everyone knew that stuff was shit. By lunchtime’s end there were sticky hints of grape jelly on most mouths. Eventually, my classmates outgrew their packed lunches, trading in PB&Js for Wednesday’s chicken nuggets, or the rare Hot Ham & Cheese Pocket. Middle school and high school meant more choices, but until the day I graduated, I brought my lunch. Everyday it was peanut butter and jelly. One might say I lacked a certain amount of imagination. In reality, I was a PB&J gourmand. Over the years, I had acquired a keen sense of what made that sandwich so good. By seven, I requested Polaner seedless strawberry jam. By 12, I had progressed to organic black cherry jelly. Wheat was essential, and a nutty, seedy bread was best. The peanut butter, however, was pivotal in the success of my sandwich. And for me, nothing compared to Peter Pan Extra Crunchy Honey Roasted. 33
Even when jelly wasn’t involved, Peter Pan was there, and I took pride in my role as an innovator of the peanut butter sandwich. Sure, there were renditions everyone knew, like peanut butter and banana. But I forged ahead into the untapped world of peanut buttery possibilities: Peanut butter and sliced apple sandwiches. Peanut butter and chocolate chips. Peanut butter and popcorn (you had to chew carefully). Peanut butter and brown sugar (I’m surprised my parents ever allowed this). When I had exhausted my sandwich supplies, I dug through the depths of pantries to find ingredients for other sweet-and-salty concoctions: Peanut butter and celery sticks. Peanut butter on bagels. Peanut butter with sliced cheddar cheese on Ritz crackers. In high school I ran cross-country, and when the yearbook staff asked for tips from runners, I enthusiastically told them to “Eat peanut butter on toast before every race.” I wondered if they realized they were interviewing a person who spent the entire season coming in dead last. In college, the jars came with me. My roommate and I fed off of each other’s homesickness. Throughout the year, most bonding sessions were held on the floor of our 12x17 dormroom, where we would cry between gloopy spoonfuls of extra crunchy peanut butter. If things were really rough, we’d buy a bag of peanut M&M’s and top our spoonfuls of Peter Pan with the candycoated, chocolate-covered kernels of temporary happiness. Alcoholics will say that there are parts of their lives they cannot remember because they were so wasted. There are certain smells during my life that I never experienced because an invisible film of peanut butter was always there — under my nose, around my mouth. I feel bad for the boys who kissed me. When I think about all of the good lunches — nice chicken salads, salami sandwiches or even a damn Panini — I missed out on because of those fucking peanut butter sandwiches, I can’t help but be angry. Like any addiction, peanut butter made me moody, and I picked fights with the ones who fed me. In Alex Reed’s kitchen, we argued over the correct approach to spreading peanut butter: Everyone knows you don’t put the jelly and peanut butter on the same slice of bread! “Fine,” Alex said, flinging the knife in the sink. “Make it yourself.” When I traveled abroad and discovered that the grocery store stocked only two kinds of peanut butter — creamy or crunchy — I had a meltdown in the condiments aisle. In February 2007, when all I wanted was a birthday peanut butter and apple sandwich, I learned that a frightening salmonella scare had caused my jar and millions of other jars of Peter Pan Peanut Butter to be recalled. I had to go out for, like, a delicious tuna niçoise salad. 34
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The Peter Pan Peanut Butter tagline was once “The simple pleasure you never outgrow.” My friends’ palates matured. A peanut butter sandwich wasn’t something they necessarily enjoyed, but when groceries were limited, the lunch provided a good source of energy. In two decades, however, my taste never adapted. I never wanted my peanut butter sandwiches to end. One five-minute lunch turned into a couple of spoonfuls, followed by a peanut butter-topped granola bar and finally Oreo cookies dunked in extra crunchy. It wasn’t a simple pleasure. It wasn’t even a guilty one. Peanut butter had taken over my life. Gradually I became more aware of peanut butter’s effect. When I sensed the oily, nuttiness taking hold, I didn’t hesitate to throw the jar away. Unfortunately, I didn’t hesitate to dig it back out of the trash. I knew I had a problem, but until last year, when I spent the better part of 72 hours writhing in peanut butter-induced agony, I couldn’t admit I was out of control. For me, rock bottom was that afternoon in March. Quitting what you think you love is hard, but on March 23, 2010, I quit peanut butter cold turkey. “This affair has lasted long enough,” I wrote to my boyfriend in an e-mail. “And it’s just been abusive.” I think about making a black cherry and extra crunchy PB&J on a near-daily basis. I can practically taste the stuff under my tongue. But my body’s noxious fumes are forever emblazoned upon my memory. I can still feel the preemptive finger dippings and that March wind. How fast the brick in my belly formed. How long it stayed. How much I hurt. There is nothing quite like a crisp red apple dunked in Peter Pan: Tart. Sweet. Salty. Crunchy. Cool. But I am learning that apples — just apples — taste good too. And this year I smell spring’s smells through untainted nasal passages. The peanut buttery film is gone. There are no more one more times.
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Vice and Woodworking by Kiernan Maletsky
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y dad has a workshop full of tools, from a saw the size of a dinner table to a screwdriver just a few millimeters wide. He has tools that can filet sheet metal and punch holes through brick. I have seen boards four inches thick part like butter under spinning blades. Among all this horsepower and pneumatics, I find the most violent tool to be the vice. It sits attached to the workbench, little more than a spiral-slotted rod and a pair of flat wooden surfaces. The handle slides freely in its metal socket; it hangs limply. The workbench is always buried under industry: dust and pencils and plans and scraps. And the vice sticks off one end. The violence of the vice comes from the way it can destroy things. The saws cut in predictable patterns, the drills drill the same hole every time. The vice forces things to break wherever they are weakest, thoroughly. When I was a kid I used the workshop to build little things. I remember putting two pieces of wood in the vice to be glued together. I spun the handle until the two walls of the vice closed on my two pieces of wood. I turned the handle and the tan glue came rushing from the joint. The wood creaked under the pressure. There’s no impact with the vice. It closes in and keeps closing. I pulled the handle a little tighter. The vice allows a scrawny kid to push on solid wood so hard it breaks. I pulled and the two sides of the vice pushed toward each other with hundreds of pounds of conviction. The fibers of the wood separated audibly until the wood could no longer hold its shape, and with a crack! the whole thing tore into pieces. When wood breaks in this way it loses all physical integrity. I thought about what it would feel like to close my hand in the vice. It would hurt to have, say, a finger sawed off, but it would be instantaneous, and you could potentially be repaired. But what if you found a hand’s breaking point in a vice? This is not a cautionary tale. I didn’t stick my hand in the vice and I’m not trying to moralize.
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NOT FRENCH COOKING
CONTRIBUTORS Kristin Noe is a born and raised Chicagoan. After graduating from the University of Missouri with a Bachelor of Journalism, she returned home and is a factchecker at Groupon, which allows her to use her background in editorial research and strengthen her desire to always be right. Kristin is a lactose intolerant vegetarian who is slowly learning how to cook delicious meals with a limited number of food groups. www.kristinnoe.blogspot.com
Sarah Myers currently lives in Denver, Colorado with two cats and an inordinate collection of kitchen supplies. She writes a weekly craft blog called “Gettin’ Crafty” for Westword, Denver’s alt-weekly publication, where she tries to be funny, punny and crafty, and usually falls short of at least one of those objectives. She can be reached at myers.sarahe@gmail.com or wandering the aisles of Whole Foods looking for samples. http://blogs.westword.com/showandtell/diy
Tom Loughlin is a designer, animator and amateur ice cream alchemist (Let’s hope he doesn’t get hold of any liquid nitrogen). When he’s not whipping up a batch of the best chocolate ice cream ever, you can find him cycling around London, scouting picnic spots. www.tomloughlin.co.uk
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A Connoiasseur has recently moved to northern Spain, leaving behind the vegetable-friendly diet and American boys he had grown used to. He now lives in a teeny-tiny village tucked between the Picos de Europa where he pretends to teach English. On good days, he wakes up to a hearty bowel movement despite all the cured pork sausage he consumes. On great days, he wakes up next to his beautiful, Barcelonian boyfriend, whom he doesn’t get to see enough but who has an ass that never fails to be worth the wait. Kiernan Maletsky is the music editor for the Riverfront Times in St. Louis, Missouri. The bike ride to work is beautiful but the drive is quicker, generally and specifically. www.rftmusic.com
Sarah Handelman is a food-eater, maker, feeder and many-viceholder who lives in London. She daydreams about medium-rare steaks, onion rings fried in bacon fat and chocolate cake, which to the dismay of her senstive stomach, she partakes in wholeheartedly eating. Sarah founded Not French Cooking as an experimental food zine after a nasty bout with peanut butter. She is, however, feeling much better. www.notfrenchcooking.com
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2011 Not French Cooking For more information: www.NotFrenchCooking.com 46