Other than the complete reversion to the mean of Gotham Girl (the reference to vehemently delicious pork sausage is, of course, an Elliotism), here's an Elaine Ou piece that inspired the present offering :
Nothing says “I hate myself” like a box of Cheez-Its.
Why do the nutrition facts tell me there are 25 crackers in a serving, 11 servings to a box? Just give me the nutrition facts for the whole damn box, that’s my serving size.
I don’t even really like Cheez-Its.
We have Cheez-Its at work. Our company lets us expense anything the internet delivers. We only have regular Cheez-Its right now.
The company office is nice. The kind of nice you get after $14 million in venture funding.
I spent the hottest weekends here last month, for the A/C.
Who am I kidding? I came here because I live in a dump.
I live in a shared apartment, with less privacy than when I lived in a college dorm. Bay Area housing shortage.
Previously, I rented the palatial crawl space above an auto shop. Best home ever. Then Google bought it for $12 million and knocked it all down. They’re probably hiring.
I bought my own varietal Cheez-Its so that I could have something different at home. Something not already stocked in the office kitchen. Otherwise what reason do I have to ever leave?
I’m not going to write a thoughtful review of each flavor. When you’re stuffing Cheez-Its to fill the void where your soul used to be, everything tastes the same. The obligations of daily life enforce a certain banality onto existence. Maybe with enough creativity you avoid the life of a cog, but I’m not sure I can pull it off anymore.
My coworkers had a case of Red Bull shipped to the office today. We know how much you like Red Bull, they said.
I love Red Bull. I loved Red Bull because it was special. Something I saved for motorcycle races and hackathons. Last year my best friend gave me a case of Red Bull for my birthday.
Now it shows up as a staple with our weekly office supplies.
I don’t know why I hate it here. I tell my friends I want to leave.
Come work at our company, they invariably offer. You might like it better.
But I have a great job. I adore my coworkers. It’s myself that I hate. It’s my lack of imagination that I hate. And no amount of change can change that.
I think I’ll go home now. Maybe I’ll eat some Cheez-Its.
Without further ado, let us indulge in
Unlike the entrants in Monday's pastaextravaganza (you realise "chicken" means a dozen drumsticks, paprika means like 50 grams, and pasta denotes a whole kg box of the prime stuff, altogether 5k calories or so of which a fifth butter, yes ?), the above were entirely produced by slave labour. Yesterday.
On the left, pineapple pie with vanilla (as in the bean) and muskatnus, while on the right pumpkin pie with ginger and cardamom (and other things). Both of these started life as plain flour, and plain salt and plain water and an actual pumpkin and an actual pineapple and so following in the hours prior to their shameless display above ; and had not been planned above and beyond my say so mere minutes afore that.
To be honest, I don't know.