The Broken Spork was a two year excursion into the field of food writing. As is usual in most of my writing a strong narrative glues each article together. And as usual has a dark undercurrent of humour and the sublime. Some of my best writing came out in these pieces and it was hard to put a nail into the proverbial food writing coffin. This blog made me explore a certain scene to the nth degree and I went in deep. Dishes researched and executed with maniacal precision. Tired and beat, I gave in the towel for the time being to explore other writing avenues.
Ahh man, a meatloaf sandwich, damn what a feat of engineering. A wonderfully arranged and colourful display of edible charisma. Or, a daft attempt at the most intensively made sandwich so far in the roster. I would call this a valiant effort; one that at some point got ahead of itself, in a race for gloried emulation.
Man, sometimes nature scares me. This movie didn’t help. The food chain already sits on a precarious ledge. If you give animals an advantage, say some-kind-of super food, then you bet your ass we are going to get whooped. You are probably reading this right now in your cosy little room, all tech savvy and what not. But, could you defend yourself against giant chickens, mega wasps and the radically increased nastiness of a humongous rat? Do you know how to load a shotgun and carefully pick off advancing mutated fauna?
The Broken Spork is feeling a film noir vibe today, so let’s roll with it: note:- read in a brooding suspenseful Don LaFontaine voice. A story of terror and tummy aches. An obscene overkill of ritual eating taken to the limit. A hot steamed slider dancing on a razor’s edge.
Battle food, a forced engagement.
This meal was an ordeal.
You try hard to get into something,
you work at it, but it exhausts you.
Cold pork jelly cubes sit uneaten.
The slivers of garlic suspended within,
reminiscent of a giant’s toenail clippings.
You’re at the tail end of a night shift, the body is drained. Every movement has to be calculated. Colours have become saturated and a unique vibrancy is shimmering above the physical surface of every object. You need something to keep you hanging in there until you can clock off and conk out.
You want to do what? Peanut butter and kimchi? Yikes woman, that might just be too far out. Let me ask you something, are you pregnant?”
A reluctant no was the response, but what’s the weirdness here? The other day I had peanut butter combo in mind that made this cracker seem like a mild mind manifestation; a sandwich that involved thin slices of smoked duck breast, caramelized onions, peanut butter and chili jam. This was all pressed between two slices of light Polish rye bread, then brushed with olive oil and cooked ’til golden in a skillet.