My evil plan to shame restaurants into improving their websites is growing. Others are catching on and joining in. Excellent. [Torontoist]
Anthony Bourdain is at it again, spouting vitriol against people he thinks he’s better than, this time Paula Deen. But he might have picked on the wrong lady, because Deen doesn’t strike me as someone who backs down. And unlike other Bourdain victims who have tricked him into rolling over and showing his belly by sending him a fruit basket, Paula Deen is not taking his shit. Maybe Bourdain should stick to picking on dead people (like his assaholic comments about deceased musician Stiv Bators) – at least they can’t fight back. [New York Post]
Milk better than water for kids? During the years where I mostly did nutrition writing, I always made a point of asking who paid for a study that seemed particularly biased. Oh, Dairy Farmers of Canada, you guys need to clean up your act and stop trying to trick people into thinking that they need milk to be healthy. No matter how many studies you pay for and try to present as fact, the truth is against you. [Globe and Mail]
Seven tips for chefs on Twitter – please to note #7. Seriously, stop retweeting every nice thing someone says about you. [Grub Street Boston]
Here’s one for the “What Were You Thinking????” file.
Every now and again, I get a craving for Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls. Really, really bad cravings. Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls are one of those weird comfort foods from my childhood – I can remember making the things with my Mom, being allowed to lick out the little plastic container of icing, waiting impatiently for the rolls to bake.
I try not to succumb to these cravings more than one or twice a year, given that Poppy Fresh is an evil little wad of dough full of trans-fats and corn syrup and other shit that will clog the arteries and send the insulin levels catapulting. But when I want the things, I really, really want the things. And today was one of those days.
Greg willingly allowed himself to be dispatched to the two variety stores nearby in search of the tantalizing blue can of fat and sugar. I offered to come with, but I had my nose in the paper and his assurance that he’d only be a minute left me complacent. Surely I could trust my husband to walk the half block to the Hasty Market and select a package of pastry.