I debated posting about this yesterday, seeing as every food critic and their mother have been getting sued for actually voicing opinions about people’s cooking. But then I realized that no one would ever sue me because all they’d get would be some stale almonds and the horseradish mayonaise I bought when I was feeling creative in the kitchen and then promptly forgot about. I now ignore that mayonaise. Which is all to say, the prepared foods selection at Whole Foods is really hit or miss.
I have a soft spot for the “Whole Wallet” and its apple-cheeked hypocrisy (plastic abounds and nearly every spit-shined apple is flown in from half way across the globe) because the inventory is such that inspires a particularly American sense of hopefulness and waste (hence, the flavored mayonnaise). That and the fact that it’s somersaulting distance from my office. Like a commitment phobic lover, that place has a way of holding me at arm’s length, reminding me never to rely upon it for consistent satisfaction.
Yesterday, I ordered a sundried tomato risotto cake and a piece of pork encrusted with something mysterious. After a quick nuking in the microwave, the risotto cake emerged tasting like hot tomato paste. Yummy. The pork was covered in a layer of oil, which I blotted and reblotted. And reblotted. Every attempt at cutting the thing bent the knife in new and illegal ways. Eventually, I wrapped the whole mess in a napkin and ate it with my hands. The person seated across from me looked on in sympathy. And she was eating something that looked like mashed yeast. I felt ashamed.
