Bouillon!

Let’s talk about bouillon.

It’s one of my favorite go-tos in cooking. You see, I need to create something every day. As you can tell by the (in)frequency of posts on this site, I love writing but cannot always be bothered. After a day surrounded by students and adults who struggle with a lifelong battle against the written word, I often come home with a large craving for a bit ‘o reading, rather than writing. Nothing gets yet another cloying essay about a mom with cancer (or a sister with cancer, or an aunt with cancer, or a zombie werewolf vampire with cancer) off the front burner of my mind-stove quite like a nice diatribe by Mark Twain or Hemingway. I love me some cranky old white men, nasty racism and misogyny notwithstanding.

Actually, since this is my essay and I don’t get any points for staying on topic (take that, all English teachers I’ve ever had), let’s talk about those two little marshmallows. Twain is the easier one - yes, some of his views and language are dated and horrid, but on a whole I think we can say he added a bit more maple syrup than potato jam to the breakfast table of ideas. And if you’re wondering, potato anything is awful.

Potatoes come from the dirt, and by god, they’re going to let us know about it. They’re like those Americans who endlessly brag about their heritage - “oh, I’m IRISH DONCHA KNOW” - but I suppose they’re a bit different because they actually do taste like the place from which they claim to be. Have you tasted an American lately? Nothing like an Irishman. None of that peaty goodness anywhere.

They’re nasty little hate lumps full of compacted bugs and fertilizer. I know they’re good for you. There’s a whole museum dedicated to them out in the east of Canada somewhere, definitely in a place that has a ton of stuff happening. I bet it competes with the local opera house and modern art museum for patrons, but I’m sure they come out on top. Who doesn’t want to spend their Saturday date night looking at tubers? Date nights can already be hard enough. I guess a potato museum wouldn’t be the worst one ever. At least there would be a placard or two to discuss, a particularly sexy-looking Yukon Gold to get you in the romantic state of mind.

Not that I’m one to talk. I think Katie and I spent our last anniversary at a Costco food court, and damn if it wasn’t one of the better date nights we’ve spent together. That’s not to say we’re not romantic; au contraire, bonjour. We just seem to realize that spending $150 on a dinner in a small cramped and sweaty bistro, waited on inattentively by a jaded grad student named “Crystal” or “Jade” while eating overpriced alfredo that I could have easily made for 1/12 the price at home is not what I’m going to call my personal fantasy. A Costco pizza slice and a churro and we’re seeing hearts and sparkles. Nothing makes the putter-patters pitter faster than a good deal.

But don’t go for the hot dog, you amateur. Do you want to be reminding your date of your gustatory adventures for the next six hours every time you breathe in her general direction? Do you want to have burps that could set a small shed aflame? Do you want to taste like someone’s Polish grandmother’s stovetop? Then go ahead, be my guest. Don’t come crying to me when your date looks like they’ve been cutting onions after you kiss them, and not because they’re overcome with lust. Nothing kills the birds and bees faster than garlic breath and ketchup burps.

I bet Hemingway didn’t mind garlic breath. The way he goes on about fishing, or bullfighting, or being a misogynist, you know that’d he’d be the type of guy to breathe his allium-scented mouth-fog on you at a party, pinning you in the corner while you look over his shoulder at all of your friends having a better time than you. I bet he purposefully ate garlic before parties. I bet he put it in all of his foods, regardless of its suitability. I bet he didn’t even care if it made his guests recoil in horror when they found an errant garlic clove in their ice cream, or tarte tatin, or freshly baked bread.

I bet Hemingway never used bouillon.