[Got a new food you'd like to review? - - - - Sugarless Tropical Twist Submitted by Sam de Silva While browsing through old journal entries, I came across this snippet from Monday, September 26, 2005: The expectations of my family are more suffocating than I thought they would be. On a brighter note, Tropical Twist Trident gum now comes in an "E-Z close" pack ... It's the little things. Seriously. This stuff is superb. - - - - The Hot Brown Submitted by Kristen D. Erickson The Hot Brown, Louisville's culinary claim to fame, was first created at the Brown Hotel in 1926. And anyone who has had a chance to sample this Southern not-so-delicate delicacy is no doubt still clutching his or her stomach in anguish. It starts with toast. Thick toast. And then about a pound of turkey piled high. Next, the Mornay sauce, which is part cheese, part roux, and all thick and gooey. In an attempt to health this thing up, tomatoes are added. This is all put under the broiler until browned, and then it is served hot with bacon on top. At first, you enjoy it. The cheese sauce, glistening, bubbling, calls to you. The bacon? How can you resist its tasty goodness? You dive right in, making sure to get a bit of everything in one bite. But this is not a sprint—it is a marathon—and, about halfway through this ginormous monstrosity, you hit a wall. A wall of cheese. You will crash. It will not be pretty. - - - - Penne à la Vodka Submitted by Larissa Williams You know how it is when you meet your roommate's mother. At first, you're like, "It's so great to finally meet you! You two could be sisters! You're so much like your daughter!" etc. But then you're all, "I forgot that I really don't like your daughter, and having two of you around is about as fun as eating glass." And then the shards of glass criticize your hair and the new curtains you put up in your bedroom. So your roommate's mother throws a dinner party at your house. She knocks on your bedroom door and asks you to come out and "be social for a change" and maybe "put on something a little less casual." So then you join a contingent of your roommate's friends and relatives for some bullshit pre-meal board game, but what you really want is to take the pot of boiling water and tumbling penne noodles off the stove and douse the next person who says "Ooh, I rolled doubles!" Instead, you hang sulkily in the kitchen and watch cup after cup of your own (expensive!) vodka get dumped into some sloppy red paste bubbling away on the burner and think, "Does all that alcohol really burn off, or will this evening devolve into a belligerent charades matchup?" Then you sit down at the table, and there is a sprig of thyme deftly balanced atop each person's pasta heap. (The pasta is served in bowls bought in real-life Italia, your roommate's mother crows.) But the thyme is from the garden out front, and all those herbs have the lingering midpalate tang of cat pee. You eat your first mouthful of penne à la vodka, a mob of noodles and sauced sauce, all the while trying to surreptitiously leave the table and turn down the thermostat from its (un)comfortable home at eighty-fucky-five degrees. With their eyes rimmed gooey black with makeup and their fondness for unnerving heat, your roommate and co. must be descended from ring-tailed lemurs. After dinner, some light reading. Your roommate's mom does the aforementioned reading aloud to a room of rapt guests, who have "never heard of this David Sedaris. What a funny guy! Too bad about the gay thing." You silently reflect upon this hell of your own making. Her mother leaves in three days. You have enough leftover penne à la vodka for a week: they've filled the fridge with portions individually wrapped in tinfoil with the date written out in script—"August Thirteenth Two Thousand and Seven," in purple marker, for Christ's sake. "But only eat one at a time, dear. You don't want to get too sexy around the hips." - - - - My Son James's Favorite Snacks Submitted by Lisa Domby "This place doesn't have a name. It's in the old Johnny's Sporting Goods, but they don't sell crickets here anymore." Takis Fuego (rolled corn chips, fire flavor): "These things taste way crunchier and way spicier and way awesomer than Doritos. The guacamole ones smell good, but they don't taste good." Paleton Patolin paleta de malvavisco (chocolate-covered marshmallow with gummy eyes and mouth): "This thing looks like a weird clown, but it tastes pretty good." Duvalin Avellana/Vainilla dulce con leche descremada (hazelnut and vanilla skimmed-milk candy): "Mom, what do you think is in this stuff? It feels like melted chocolate." Paleta de vainilla (vanilla popsicle): "This thing has a good flavor, but why did they put three raisins on the top of it? They should be chocolate chips. Or I thought they would be vanilla beans. Can you bite the top off? But don't take too much, because the other stuff is good." Jarritos Toronja (grapefruit soda): "This isn't made out of real grapefruit, because I hate grapefruit, but I love this." Hall's Chela Limón (beer-and-lime-flavored cough drops): "They don't have this flavor at CVS. That's why I like to get them here." Babidinos Paletadinos sabor tamarindo enchilada (tamarind lollipop): "This is my favorite thing to get. This thing is really chewy and spicy. You can't eat the whole thing, because it's too spicy, but you can save it in the refrigerator for a really long time. If you don't put it in the refrigerator, ants will get on it." - - - - Green Figs Submitted by Audrey Harris Their price varies based on the weather and how vulnerable you look at the time you stop by the Pakistani fruit stand at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 14th Street. This rainy morning, with no umbrella and only a twenty in my wallet, a basket set me back $3.99. With bright yellow-green skin and stubby stems, they look like pert baby-alien heads. Their brains are soft and strawberry-hued and pornographically sweet. Recipe for green-fig tartlets: Cut store-bought phyllo dough into rounds with a cookie cutter. Sprinkle with sugar. Top each round with a green-fig half, pulp side up. Smear a little goat cheese on the fruit. Roast for 15 minutes at 300 degrees Fahrenheit. Top each fig with a roasted, salted almond from the handy bag in your pantry. - - - - Dwight Yoakam's Chicken Fries Submitted by Jonathan Holley A product of the Bakersfield Biscuits Brand, Dwight Yoakam's Chicken Lickin's Chicken Fries come approximately 12 to a box, which costs just a dollar. These are similar to the chicken fries available at Burger King, but of inferior quality. The bright red, orange, and yellow packaging of Dwight Yoakam's chicken purports that they are "inspected for wholesomeness" by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. The packaging is evasive regarding the results of said inspection. Were these fries deemed wholesome? It seems impossible. In my 1997 analysis of the chickenesque, I famously hypothesized that Nabisco's Chicken in a Biskit crackers would forever maintain position as lowest rung on the chicken continuum. Today, Dwight Yoakam offers irrefutable counterevidence and collapses my former worldview. - - - - Naked Submitted by John Zackel The Walk of Shame, as it used to be called back in the 20th century, is typically defined as one's walk home after a sexy night spent at a lover's. The "walk" part of it is pretty self-explanatory, but the "shame" part comes in because you don't take a shower in the morning. Your breath, as Vonnegut so nicely put it, smells like mustard gas, and you don't have any deodorant, and your hair looks like one part Flock of Seagulls and one part wet dog. During this Walk of Shame, your chance of encountering a distant relative, a TV news reporter filming stock footage of homeless people, or, more likely, every person you've ever known, increases inversely with your attractiveness at any given moment. "Hey, So-and-So," someone might say from across the street, waving you over. "You look like shit!" You quickly try to smooth out your hair. "Thanks, Father Thomas," you might answer. He'll sniff the air as you approach. "Have you been having relations before marriage, So-and-So?" "No, Father Thomas," you'll answer, crossing your fingers behind your back. "I have to say, So-and-So," he'll say, "you smell like booty." "No, sir!" you'll pipe up. "It's just this Naked All Natural Antioxidant Juice Smoothie I have with me." And you'll hold up the Naked All Natural Antioxidant 100% Juice Smoothie you purchased for a whopping $4 (!) at the gas station across the street from your lover's house. "Well, I'll be a monkey's grandson! That Juice smells like a [slang term for a horribly vulgar sexual act, named after a city in Ohio]!" You'll nod aggressively, unscrew the plastic cap, and take a swig of antioxidant goodness. You'll make a satisfied sound, then hold the plastic recyclable bottle up to the light of day. "Just juice!" you'll shout. Father Thomas, or whomever you might be talking to, will gladly accept your fervor, pat you on the back, and ask you why your generation is so accepting of homosexuals. Before you offer an informed, convincing explanation of why Father Thomas is a bit of a hypocrite (if you know what I mean), you'll take another swig from Naked All Natural Antioxidant 100% Juice Smoothie and decide right then and there: Healthy Never Tasted So Good. - - - - Dongpo Rou Submitted by Benjamin Gaulke This pork dish, literally "Dongpo's meat," is named after the great 11th-century Song-dynasty poet Su Dongpo, who, as a bureaucrat and engineering genius, was responsible for the construction of a causeway across the West Lake, in Hangzhou. Supposedly, he fed the workers his eponymous delicacy in order to give them strength and energy. The other, probably apocryphal, genesis story of this dish is that Su one day was bored and decided to stew some pork. He then got distracted by a game of chess and left the pork in the pot for too long. He returned to find the meat incredibly tender and succulent. This was a benign disaster matched only by Louis Pasteur's failure to cover the petri dish where he subsequently discovered penicillin. Every Chinese person I have ever eaten Dongpo rou with has insisted that it is very healthy and good for me. Considering that it is a solid cube of pork and more than 50 percent fat, I completely disagree. Dongpo rou is the most disgusting and delicious food I have ever eaten. Timid Americans often refuse it, which means more for me. I have pounded down three of these 3-inch cubic, greasy delights in a row. A friend of mine claims that Dongpo rou tastes like brownies. If so, it is the perfect combination of meat and dessert. I marvel at the sophisticated origin of such a seemingly philistine dish; it would be like discovering that Einstein invented the Hot Pocket. Su Dongpo was a truly great man. - - - - Listerine Whitening Quick Dissolving Strips Submitted by Micki E. Grover From the company that single-handedly taught America that your mouth ain't clean till it tingles like hellfire comes the best new candy in years! Listerine has taken the modern obsession with vanity and given it the stick-to-your-gums charm of a Butterfinger. Imagine a Listerine-flavored Jelly Belly that whitens, too. The strip is as delicious as it is functional, and, by placing on it a four-week maximum-usage restriction, Listerine has cultivated the "get it while you can" hype of short-lived edible oddities like the McRib or the Cadbury Creme Egg. Only one element in Listerine's marketing campaign confuses me, and that is the claim that the strips dissolve within 5 to 10 minutes. I'm still finding sweet, sweet morsels from yesterday's strips; why not take a hint from your friends in the gum business and call them "longer-lasting"? Listerine, you silly fools, people want more for their dollar, not less. Great for getting paper-white chompers on the go, freshening your breath after your midday hummus break, or just swallowing directly, Listerine Whitening Quick Dissolving Strips are the only thing I have to look forward to during the slow afternoon hours at work. I just hope nobody calls. I can't swallow my saliva when I have these things in my mouth. - - - - Odwalla Strawberry C Monster Fruit Smoothie Submitted by Jacob Barron In their quest to supply lonely office workers with a weapon to combat the threat of weather-weary immune systems, the Odwalla juice company seems to have forgotten to remove the stems from any of the strawberries before juicing them. - - - - Kasugai Muscat Gummy Candy Submitted by Scott Sand The package states, "Its translucent color so alluring and taste and aroma so gentle and mellow offer admiring feelings of a graceful lady." I don't even know what that means exactly; I'm just glad the candies inside the package are wrapped individually, the only thing preventing me from devouring the whole bag in two big handfuls. The package also says "Muscat 100%," then something in Japanese. I don't know what they mean by that, either. The third ingredient, after sugar and corn syrup, is concentrated Muscat juice, but they also contain artificial Muscat flavor. I wish I could read Japanese. At least I can read the English, like "contains milk ingredient," which is in a bold font. Too bad for the lactose intolerant, because these rule. - - - - 4C Sugar-Free Totally Light 2Go Submitted by Max Zaenglein The idea is to rip open the tiny packet and pour this fine powder into your water bottle, giving your water flavors that regular water can only dream about. Having only recently discovered that a pomegranate is a fruit and not something one treats with medication, I was curious, to say the least. It tasted like a liquefied Fruit Roll-Up, and left a sticky coat on my teeth I had experienced only once before, by eating 50 or so packs of Nerds candy. Although I was disgusted, my curiosity was again piqued: what did this stuff taste like before it made contact with water? Not fully brave enough to pour it directly onto my tongue, I took a quick sniff at the now almost empty packet. The remaining powder shot up my nose and I can only assume that it exploded, because I had to close my eyes to prevent them from shooting out of my skull. The taste is nasty, but snorting it is fuckin' awesome, if you can handle the ride. - - - - Luna Bars Submitted by Nicholas Markman For my 21st birthday, the Clif Bar company sent me the recently introduced Luna bar, "the whole nutrition bar for women." That's what it said right above my printed name. I understand mistakes. Maybe if my name were Alex or Pat or Sam I could have shrugged it off. But my name isn't Alex, Pat, or Sam. It's Nicholas, and I have never known a female Nicholas. Did I really need to be singled out like that? Couldn't they address the bar to "Current Resident"? My birthday was teetering on disaster. How did I get on this list, anyway? Did I accidentally buy women's deodorant while using my Safeway Club Card? Is it because I used to shave my legs before swim meets? Was it the drag performance I did at 4-H camp? Regardless, I am considering sending a long and irate letter to the CEO of the Clif Bar company. That aside, the Luna bar was delicious. I would recommend Luna bars to anyone looking for a meal that delivers quick calorie intake and hormonal balance. - - - - Kellogg's Chocolate Peanut Butter Pops Submitted by Isaac Marion I've always been a big fan of Corn Pops, or, as they're now called, Pops, having modernized by dropping that old-fashioned "corn" from the name, and changing their tag line to "Big Yellow Taste!" I have no idea what "yellow" is supposed to taste like, but Pops taste pretty good. So, I was delighted and curious when I saw Chocolate Peanut Butter Pops at my local Safeway. I took home a box and immediately poured a bowl. What's this? The Pops aren't in their usual puffed-corn-kernel shape; they're all perfectly round spheres. This can't be a good sign. I take a bite, and, instead of the soft, gently pliant crunch that I'm expecting, the spheres shatter between my teeth like little balls of peanut-buttery pumice. Apparently, the addition of the chocolate-peanut-butter flavoring necessitated a complete change in the basic composition of the cereal, because what I was eating were not Pops at all; they were slightly larger-than-average Cocoa Puffs, or maybe even bits of Cap'n Crunch—the ultracrunchy polar opposite of sweet, gentle Pops! The antithesis! And I have the scarred gums to prove it. How does Kellogg get away with a switch-up like this? Why would they call this cereal Pops when it is so clearly not Pops? Now I'm waiting nervously for the day I open a bottle of "New, Improved Taste!" Pepsi only to find it filled with Lil' Smokies. - - - - Celestial Seasonings Submitted by Janis Butler Holm I brew five or six cups of this drink every day, each one sweetened with a packet of Splenda. Though I can't really identify the rooibos, the sweet orange-mango flavoring makes my taste buds sing. One of the websites devoted to rooibos claims that this South African tea is good for asthma, colic, eczema, hay fever, headaches, hypertension, insomnia, irritability, and nervous tension. Mercy! Rooibos, the site goes on to say, has "significant amounts" of polyphenol antioxidants, which makes it a good choice if you're worried about cancer, stroke, or heart disease. Another website says that rooibos contains the following beneficial flavonoids: aspalathin, chrysoeriol, isoorientin, isoquercitrin, isovitexin, luteolin, orientin, quercetin, rutin, and vitexin. Isn't that nice? And recent studies suggest that rooibos may reduce brain damage from age-related diseases. While it can't make you smarter, it may help you stay smart longer. Of course, black teas and green teas offer equally impressive health benefits—but rooibos doesn't contain caffeine. You can drink it all day without overstimulation. (No flying around the ceiling when it's close to your bedtime.) And it doesn't have the acidity/bitterness of other herbal teas. (Are you paying attention, Celestial Seasonings?) But, whatever you do, don't spill this drink. Though it looks red in your cup, Celestial Seasonings rooibos (I can't speak for other brands) will dye your clothes yellow when you slop it down your front. It's a bright, happy yellow, but it won't make you glad. - - - - Golden Flake Crisp & Crunchy Cheese Curls Submitted by Jackie May As a recent transplant from the Midwest to the South, I'm doing my best to assimilate. I walk by the towers of shrink-wrapped hog jowls at Wal-Mart without shrieking or taking pictures on my camera phone, I've said "y'all" once or twice, and if a waitress asks me, "What kind of Coke?," I don't hit her. And, when faced with a vending machine that offered both Cheetos and Golden Flake Crisp & Crunchy Cheese Curls, I went for the Golden Flake. Golden Flake Cheese Curls would appeal to both extremes of the cultural spectrum—at one end, New York Times food writers, say, or Harold Bloom; on the other, people raised by beavers. These curls taste classy and authentic. They taste like food assembled entirely from recognizable ingredients, like cornmeal batter cunningly infused with actual cheese and fried in oil by cheerful people wearing hairnets. They don't turn your fingers orange. For those of us in the middle of the cultural spectrum, for whom a bag of Cheetos contains neither the shame of downward mobility nor the nightmare glitter of an incomprehensible new world, Golden Flake Crisp & Crunchy Cheese Curls just taste really weird and wrong. They make me want to hop a flight to Minneapolis. - - - - Surprise Zombie Sundae Submitted by Megan Baker At the Omega Restaurant & Pancake House of Downers Grove, Illinois, after grubbing up such entrées as GRILLED CALF'S LIVER, NORWEGIAN SARDINE PLATE, and HOBO BANQUET, you may find your taste buds overwhelmed. You may lean back in your seafoam-green seat, pat your stomach, take a deep breath of secondhand-smoke-filled air, and say, "Hey, you know what? After munching on that week-old bread basket featuring sesame-seed rolls, wheat buns, croissants, Italian-looking breadsticks, saltines, and a banana-nut muffin and downing those POPPERS (JALAPEÑO) , I think my tummy is about to bust." That's what the TUMMY BUSTER is for. It's only the "Largest and Most Beautiful Sundae You Have Ever Seen." But you're up for something wilder. Something unexpected. Something ... from the crypt. Something by the name of SURPRISE ZOMBIE. It's the "World's Largest Ice Cream Soda." It's $8.95. It's obscene. Your waitress, Lezlee, must enlist the help of a co-worker to both prepare and carry the monster to your table, cursing you all the while, you little shit, you who have the nerve to order 60 ounces of ice cream at 1 in the morning, just to see what's so surprising about an ice-cream soda, other than the fact that it's associated with a resurrected corpse. Surprise! It tastes terrible. Like a good ice-cream soda that has died and returned as a mutant dessert, perhaps. Once you pick out the eight or so drink umbrellas (surprise!—it's a tropical zombie), random clusters of maraschino cherries, and stale Oreos, you meet a foamy mass of whipped cream that is not so much sweet as it is sudsy. By the time your spoon has scraped through the froth, a glacial ceiling has crystallized atop the float. You must chip, chip away if you ever wish to explore the murkiness that lies beneath. What will your excavation reveal? Surprise! Zero flavors of ice cream that go with root beer. From the depths of the cloudy beige waters, you pull strawberry, mint-chocolate-chip, butter-pecan, coffee, cookie-dough, and rainbow-sherbet scoops. If you dare to taste the dessert-creature, you will find that each and every bite tastes like chilled Wite-Out. But you don't care at this point. It's Lezlee's brains you're drooling for now. - - - - Chipsters Submitted by Steve DiPietro In the late '70s, there was a snack food like no other. I still don't know if it was corn- or potato-based. All I know is that it was the greatest-tasting snack in the world. Salty and somehow tangy, every single bite was pure bliss. My mom would bring home a couple of bags from every trip to Stop & Shop, but they would be gone in a day. There was never a half-empty bag in the cupboard. If it was opened, it was finished in one sitting. The perfect food had been created. Life was good. It didn't last long. Soon, my Chipsters disappeared from the shelves, and not only from Stop & Shop. Star Market, DeMoulas, and even the First National Food Store stopped carrying them. Inexplicably, the only place that carried them was Moe Black's, a hardware store four towns over. My joyous intake was thus drastically reduced, as my mom didn't share my addiction and didn't see the need to, as she put it, drive halfway across the universe for chips. What she wasn't understanding was that these weren't chips. These were Chipsters, an entirely different breed. Luckily, my dad would make a trip to the hardware store every couple of months. I would scurry off to the basement, away from my siblings, to slowly savor my lost love, wondering what kind of world could make such a great snack treat and then make it so hard to obtain. I was about to find out that the world could be even more cruel than I'd first imagined—the hardware store, like so many stores before it, gave in to the forces of evil and stopped carrying Chipsters. Twenty years later, I found them again. I was in a small convenience store in Italy. I saw a picture of what looked like my beloved Chipster on a box labeled "Cipsters." My friend told me that, in Italian, the C is pronounced as a ch sound. That was all I needed to know. I threw a handful of lire at the clerk, ripped open the box, and was transported back to my childhood. Language barriers, the Atlantic Ocean, and even time itself couldn't keep me from my destiny. The world was once again a good place. I stocked up on several boxes and savored them for the rest of our trip through Europe. It was a short-lived reunion, but one that I cherished. Six years later, I got married. Naturally, our honeymoon was in Italy. I plan on moving there soon—whether my lady comes with me or not. - - - - All-You-Can-Eat Crab Legs Submitted by Briana Newton Until recently, I had never planned on eating crab legs. I had long ago stopped eating meat, and only ate seafood that didn't resemble any sea creature in particular. Things like tuna salad or clam chowder were acceptable. But crab legs were far too lifelike. I was scared off by their witch-finger appearance, disgusted by the thought of tearing into them with my bare hands and those awful metal shell-cracking tools. And then one night my sister and I were at one of those casino all-you-can-eat buffets. While waiting to be seated, I thought about the mashed potatoes and the salad bar, and hoped for some mac and cheese. But none of the people returning to their tables from the buffet seemed to share my enthusiasm for side dishes. Instead, I watched one person after another pass by with urgency in their step and a protective hand over the massive tangle of crab legs on their plate. I wondered if I was missing out. My sister felt the same way. We decided to try them. After we'd been given a table, we ventured to the buffet, which was actually a whole separate room of food. On the far wall, a mob had formed around two steaming kiosks overflowing with crab legs. Empty plates clutched to their chests, the other diners impatiently waited for their turn to help themselves to the bounty. Occasionally, someone would load a plate too fully, earning dirty looks that said, "Now there won't be enough for me and I'll have to punch you." I stood around, unapologetically staring at everyone, while my sister went in for the kill. She returned with one sad little serving (half a crab) for us to try. But first we had to get the requisite plastic cup of melted butter, which was dispensed from a 10-gallon steel drum with a spout on the end. Getting the meat out of the crab leg was a challenge. I pulled, I cracked the shells, I made exaggerated harrumphing sounds to prove just how hard I was trying. In the end, I freed a sizable red-and-white section from a leg. And then the rest of the dinner became a sort of competition: Who could yank out the biggest intact piece of meat? In the end, I left the table with tiny crab chunks wedged under my fingernails, butter running down the backs of my arms to my elbow, and an uneasy camaraderie with the rest of the buffet patrons. It tasted OK, but it was probably the only dinner I've ever had that left me with a sense of accomplishment. Also, I discovered the tendon inside the leg that, when pulled, makes the claw open and close. Neat! - - - - Poi Submitted by Nathan Adkisson I was recently on the island of Kauai for a vacation with some distant, middle-aged relatives. We decided it would be a good idea to go to a luau, because—well, why not? We were tourists. At the luau, we saw some good fire dancing, heard a mediocre cover of "Tiny Bubbles," and were served roasted pork with something called poi, "a traditional Hawaiian condiment that has been part of the natives' diet for several millennia," we were told. I took issue with this statement. Poi is wallpaper glue. I believe that fact precludes it from being hailed as some kind of historical local delicacy. Just how gullible do they think we are? As soon as they put the bowls of the thick paste on the table, I thought I was back in the orthodontist's office getting my braces removed, the taste of the adhesive thick on my tongue. I read in a pamphlet at the table that poi is made from the "corm of the kalo plant (known widely as taro)." I have a few things to say about that. I have supreme confidence that there is no such thing as a kalo, and even if there is, why would it be known as taro instead? And "corm"? It's like they didn't even try to come up with a word that would fool us. Perhaps if they'd thrown in some apostrophes and some double vowels it might have worked. Coo'rm, perhaps, or maybe ka'irmi. Instead, we were all able to see right through the ruse. I am positive that poi is in fact rubber cement containing a recently introduced food coloring known as Gray No. 5. I may have been a tourist, but I know authenticity when I eat it. - - - - Yogurt With Granola and Fruit Submitted by Eric Karjala I had been living in a marriage of convenience to cereal and its low cost and satisfying taste. I found it presumptuous when a cereal billed itself as "part of a complete breakfast," because it implied that I had the time and resources to procure a bran muffin and a Carmen Miranda hat's worth of fruit every time I was hungry. For me, cereal alone could constitute an entire lunch or dinner. The problem was that it's hard to feel like an adult when you're scooping up soggy mouthfuls of flakes from where they bob like driftwood in a sea of backwashed milk. This is probably because cereal is for babies. Some roommates recently turned me on to plain yogurt and its special versatility. Plain yogurt is kind of like the "fruit on the bottom" yogurt I'm used to, except on the bottom of plain yogurt there is only more yogurt. It is far more elegant to add in the fruit yourself. Aggregate fruits like raspberries or strawberries offer a compelling counterpoint to yogurt's natural sourness. True customizing comes with your choice of granola. Grocery stores specializing in natural and organic products offer a wide selection of granola, sold in bulk at reasonable prices. Maple granola, pumpkin granola, cranberry granola, vanilla granola—I don't care which you choose; you're the hero of this story. Dump your granola and berries into a bowl half-filled with yogurt and then stir until you've got an even distribution of fruit and a doughlike consistency. The resulting taste is as decadent as gelato, yet more healthful and fulfilling. More importantly, nobody looks at you askance when you eat your treat of yogurt and granola. You're no baby: you're a health-conscious adult with a fondness for expediency and a penchant for constrained variety. These are the things I kept telling myself, but the other day I looked down at my overflowing bowl of yogurt and granola and blackberries and saw nothing but a wet mound of self-deception. It was time to admit to myself that |