In general for men of sense and reason, in respect of food, what is easy to procure is better than what is hard to obtain, what requires no work than what requires it, what is available than what is not at hand.
But to sum up the question of food, I maintain that its purpose should be to produce health and strength, that one should for that purpose eat only that which requires no great outlay, and finally that at table one should have regard for a fitting decorum and moderation, and most of all should be superior to the common vices of filth and greedy haste.
The wife and I once found ourselves in a grocery store in Cambridge, just before Thanksgiving, and we couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two well-to do women.
To be honest, there was no overhearing it at all, because, like most entitled people, they made sure that we all heard what they had to say.
“Where are the strawberries? I need some fucking strawberries!”
“There’s a few over right here, right over here.”
“Yeah, but they’re not organic. Josh will kill me if they’re not organic. Oh, my fucking God, I need some organic strawberries!”
“See? I told you this store was no good.”
My wife was still new to Massachusetts, straight from Texas, and she made the horrible mistake of trying to help them.
“Strawberries are out of season right now, and anything you buy will be a bit old and questionable.”
The laser glares of those two very special women were suddenly upon her. I did my best to hide behind the fish counter.
“What, are you some kind of fucking chef? What the hell do you know about it?”
“Yes, I am a chef, and you’d be smarter to get some cranberries, if you want something fresh.”
“Yeah, but I want some fucking organic strawberries!”
I will remember my wife’s response to my dying day:
“Of course you do, but we don’t always get what we want, do we? And your loud cussing, Ma’am, won’t change that one bit.”
Fancy people want fancy things, and yet decent people are quite content with decent things.
But to sum up the question of food, I maintain that its purpose should be to produce health and strength, that one should for that purpose eat only that which requires no great outlay, and finally that at table one should have regard for a fitting decorum and moderation, and most of all should be superior to the common vices of filth and greedy haste.
The wife and I once found ourselves in a grocery store in Cambridge, just before Thanksgiving, and we couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two well-to do women.
To be honest, there was no overhearing it at all, because, like most entitled people, they made sure that we all heard what they had to say.
“Where are the strawberries? I need some fucking strawberries!”
“There’s a few over right here, right over here.”
“Yeah, but they’re not organic. Josh will kill me if they’re not organic. Oh, my fucking God, I need some organic strawberries!”
“See? I told you this store was no good.”
My wife was still new to Massachusetts, straight from Texas, and she made the horrible mistake of trying to help them.
“Strawberries are out of season right now, and anything you buy will be a bit old and questionable.”
The laser glares of those two very special women were suddenly upon her. I did my best to hide behind the fish counter.
“What, are you some kind of fucking chef? What the hell do you know about it?”
“Yes, I am a chef, and you’d be smarter to get some cranberries, if you want something fresh.”
“Yeah, but I want some fucking organic strawberries!”
I will remember my wife’s response to my dying day:
“Of course you do, but we don’t always get what we want, do we? And your loud cussing, Ma’am, won’t change that one bit.”
Fancy people want fancy things, and yet decent people are quite content with decent things.
Written in 5/2000
IMAGE: Giant Frauds
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