Saturday, December 21, 2013

Ce n'est pas de la pornographie


Out of Focus? Yes. Poorly Lit? Yes. Not Porn
Years ago I frequented a bar in The American South that featured live music. A few times a year that live music was provided by a band featuring the former bass player of another band, called .38 Special, who were part of a nationwide mandate by record company executives of the late '70s and early '80s to find a band that A) would woo Southern youth away from the "oom poppa mow mow" siren's call of The Oakridge Boys and B) hadn't died in a plane crash*.

*Didn't like that joke? Sorry, but I invoke the Three Steps rule. Away!

Other bands that weren't Lynyrd Skynyrd included the gator-meat-and-Frank-Franzetta-fueled stylings of Molly "Flirtin' With Disaster" Hatchet and the forgettable sound of Irving, Texas' Point Blank. Even if you don't remember .38 Special you've likely heard them on shopping mall sound systems across the land soulfully advising Eighties youth to "hold on loosely" to their love lest they "cling too tightly" and thereby "loose control" of that love. .38 Special's sound was a southern rock mélange of  the Atlanta Rhythm Section and The Captain and Tennielle. Their base player looked like a greasy blond Ewok in a cowboy hat.

One night after the band's last set the greasy Ewok introduced a group of us to a shooter drink he'd concocted, perhaps while drunk. As I recall it was just a Black Russian with extra Kahlua. There may have been other ingredients in the mix, but they don't matter. The resulting drink was a thick, disgusting mess that he had dubbed the Cocaine Slam.

Someone in my group asked why he would have given it such a name. I informed her that perhaps the drug had been his inspiration, or maybe calling it by that name was the only way to get other hillbillies to try it. Either way, the Ewok was likely inhaling some vendor-trampled coca leaf extract during the drink's creation, not the baby laxative and flesh-eating bacteria that you kids call cocaine today. Nothing else, when mixed with a liter of cheap whiskey, will leave a man so scrambled and blind that he will proudly serve a glass of mud to people that he just met.

Like that sad little drink our nation was built on cocaine. Well, if not our nation then its porn industry. It is cocaine, The Breakfast of Strippers, that brings me to the point of this rant: Stop Calling Pictures of Food "Porn".

People who lovingly blend flavors, colors, and textures and then lovingly plate and photograph the resulting foods are not, generally, spreading their shaven buttholes or waving their hairy wangs for your prurient entertainment. They aren't giving you the best product that they can manage while looking under the couch cushions for more cocaine. They are, however, giving you their best. That effort deserves better than to be compared to someone pointing a half-focused camera at Ron Jeremy's dense forest of an ass while he crawls on top of some aspiring waitress.

It's simple. I don't want hair in my food and I don't want hollandaise sauce on my porn. In fact, I don't want porn. I do, now that I mention it, want hollandaise sauce.

The photo above this rant? Call it seared ahi steak with butter, olive oil, black peppercorns, kosher salt, paprika, and black garlic.  Call it an avocado with extra virgin olive oil and nama shoyu. Call it a roasted zucchini slice. Call it roasted beets with pomegranate seeds. Call it a dab of wasabi. Don't compare it to some slimy sideshow. Don't call it food porn.

I call for the separation of food and sex. It's enough trouble getting whipped cream out of the sheets as it is.

/rant

Don't.

This post is dedicated to Chowbacca! friend Jerry Bad Things, whose own rant elsewhere inspired me to finally write about this irritant.