If the tags are any indication, I’ve never done an out and out rant on Omnivorous Fish. Well, today that changes.
If you knew me years ago, you’d know that I used to be prone to fits of anger that were epic in the theater. A fit of screaming by Joe Fish was a remarkable thing, and if the sheer volume of decibels and profanity weren’t enough, the likelihood that I might switch languages kept people on their toes. The best thing, however, might have been the infinitesimally insignificant things that could provoke such fury, like dropping a screw or a day with weather that didn’t meet with my approval.
That said, I am a fucking teddy bear these days. I do *yoga* for christ’s sake. I find myself saying things like ‘goodness’ and ‘oh my.’ Gone are the profane litanies of anatomy and acrobatic copulating, usually describing the activities of someone’s mother. I meditate, I donate money and canned goods and I say hello to people I don’t even know.
But tonight, I had a relapse.
Picture me, if you can, in the kitchen with a mound of beautiful, freshly reconstituted bulghur wheat, and two acceptable bunches of parsley. I’m so relaxed I chop the scallions and the parsley in the food processor. I make a perfect brunoise of onion; I squeeze in a local lemon and the last of my local olive oil. Some natural sea salt and a few turns of the pepper mill later, I am left with a perfect mound of tabbouleh. What better than some pita? I know that lettuce leaves are *de rigueur*, but I don’t care, I like my tabbouleh with pita.
No biggie, I’ll just run to the supermarket. Whole foods is a very ungreen fifteen minute drive away, so I’ll just run down to the local Ralph’s (who would name a grocery store after a colloquialism for vomit, anyhow?) and pick some up. There must be **one** brand of something I can find that’s not made out of shit, right?
Well, lo and behold, they don’t carry pitas. Who knew? I thought their diet-fad of the early nineties had made them ubiquitous, but they were nowhere to be found. No matter, I’m nothing if not adaptable. I wandered over the tortilla area. I say ‘area’ because in southern california, there is a whole area. That area had four f#$%ing
brands of ten f#$%ing different f#$%ing kinds of mother f#$%ing tortilla. And you know what? There wasn’t a single f#$%ing one that didn’t have f#$%ing cellulose f#$%ing gum and three f#$%ing different f#$%ing preservatives in it!
I left the store with nostrils flaring.
How the fuck did we get to this point? I understand that the system is what it is, but how the fuck did we get to the point where there’s not one option for fucking BREAD in the whole fucking store that isn’t loaded with *bullshit*?!?!?!?!?!!!! No wonder this whole fucked up country is three hundred f#$%ing pounds and f#$%ing dying of f#$%ing diabetes at 30. I can barely fucking take it. I have to bake fucking bread twice a fucking week because in the third largest city in California, I can’t find a decent fucking baguette (except occasionally when there are la brea bakery baguettes at Whole Problem, but they’re not that good- and pricey). What the fuck, over?
And don’t tell me there aren’t alternatives. There’s a widely distributed brand of tortillas that Albertson’s carries (though they, too, are much further away) that just have masa and water, period. These fucking stores only a give a rat’s ass about monetization and the depth of their supply chains, and don’t care whether their customers live or die. And the USD of f#$%ing A is complicit in this sham, and so America largely has no idea that they’re being fed dollars and cents in the form of corn and soybeans. Meanwhile the FDA suppresses studies that could draw the link from the family farms they hobble to the drugs they wittingly market.
Fuck this fucking fucked up food system and fuck this fucking government that tells me it’s ok. Fuck the organic f#$%ing trade association, fuck USDA organic, fuck ConAgra, fuck Monsanto and fuck Archer Daniels f#$%ing Midland, I don’t care HOW MUCH money they give to NPR. Fuck Earl Butz, and fuck Richard Nixon and while we’re at it, fuck Kenneth Star and f#$%ing James Dobson.
I’m a little calmer now. I’ve thrown a few things and had some tabbouleh. Maybe we should have moved to France. They give farmers and chefs fucking *medals* there. Slightly lower standard of living, yes, but by whose standard? Health insurance? Retirement? Food? Culture? Status in the world? What about quality of life? Grrrr.
Listening: “Ho Ro Mo Chuachag” The Whistlebinkies A Wanton Fling
