I absolutely hate the grocery store. Even if I didn’t know that it was a haven for price-gouging leprechauns and “organic factory farmers,” I’d still hate it – because I was a Lit major, and the supermarket is a bastion for bastardization of language and meaning. Case in point: “Plastic Silverware.” No. This is the oxymoronic equivalent of “authentic reproduction” or “Valley Heights.”
I mean, this is food. It’s not fiction. Or is it?
I embrace what I eat, whether meat or vegetable. There’s a fundamental disconnect when
you have to turn your food into (edit: when a edible-product company endeavors to market) some fantasy about what your innate intelligence clearly wishes you’d eat. I don’t see any Real Food folks running around calling their medium-rare steaks “Veg-un.” Ground up textured vegetable protein does not ground beef make.
I contend that grain is grain. It can be eaten by “meat” (though that’s certainly not ideal); it can claim it’s dating “meat” (even if they just hooked up at a New Years party in ’09); it can even don a meat suit a-la Lady Gaga. But it’s still going to be a Trend-savvy Media Floozy bunch of empty, nutrient-poor calories.
For more Fun at the Greengrocer, click here.