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Posts Tagged ‘Food Art’

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I yam what I yam

Ravishing radish

With or without my prurient greens

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An unrolled radish gathers no moss

Ivory daikonery statuesquery

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Celebrant radishes work and worry

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And the Sacred Mother Radish reigns the wrinkled world

White-hearted, wrinkle-headed. Delicious?

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Crunchy.

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Superheroes seem to keep popping up in my world.

They are appearing in more forms than I’d ever imagined on the pages of the book I’m reading right now – ‘Who Can Save Us Now – Brand New Superheroes and Their Amazing (Short) Stories’ . They’re on the pages of  ‘Mental Floss‘ magazine this month in the article ‘5 Comic Superheroes Who Made a Real World Difference’. They showed up in great form at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC. And last month they took to the runways at The  New York Chocolate Show, capering and mincing along in astonishing costumes – no longer made of strange stretchy materials – but constructed instead of the fruits of the cocoa bean, warped by knowledgable chocolate-focused culinary materialists and reimaged to be stylin’.

(More images here on telegraph.co.uk.)

While reading the ‘Superheroes’ book I wondered what sort of superhero I’d be (if only I could be one). I’d have to be something to do with food, I thought. These new superheroes can take many different forms. Some are described in this review from bookgasm:

One of my favorites was “The Pentecostal Home for Flying Children,” in which Will Clarke examines the aftereffects of a promiscuous costumed crimefighter and a town full of easily seduced Baptist women. The result is a slew of snotty kids who can fly and wreak havoc on their neighbors’ privacy and well-being. It takes a rather dark, disturbing turn.

Another highlight is the heartbreaking “The Horses Are Loose” by Cary Holladay. Its little-girl protagonist is born with the knowledge that she has the power to fly, but can only use this power once. She’s saving it for a grand plan that she hopes will save her single, clinically depressed mother from a lifetime of misery. If it doesn’t move you even a little, read it again.

Some pieces are straight humor, like the Sea Monkeys-oriented “The Snipper,” from Noria Jablonski, and Sam Weller’s “The Quick Stop 5®,” in which a chemical accidental transforms a quintet of convenience-store employees into mutants with the powers of beef jerky, a Slushee, condoms and the like. It’s one of the better stories in the entire volume, marred only by an over-reliance on pot humor.

At first I thought of fruits and vegetables, but my mind became a curious blank slush. No, ‘Banana Woman’ – who would stroll through the most luxurious shopping areas of major cities of the world trying to make the universe a better place by finding the most perfect outfit to buy that ever existed! (while saving cats and dogs and old ladies from ugly-faced muggers who were trying to steal their sardines, bones, and handbags by hitting the muggers over the head with a huge banana that would grow in an instant before your eyes from the end of her right middle finger, leaving the malefactors covered in a pool of disintegrating banana mush rapidly turning brown and attracting flies) would not do.

Besides, it seemed to hint at penis envy.

Forget the fruits and vegetables. On to meat.  Fish were not something I considered – though actually something could be done with a giant clam. Or with a jellyfish. Ever get stung by a jellyfish?

After sifting through various ideas for becoming a meat-based superhero, the decision was made. It was perfect. I would be ‘Caul-Fat Girl’.

I haven’t exactly worked out all the details yet, but basically somehow I would extrude a huge net of caul-fat whenever and wherever trouble arose in the world. I could then wing it through the air to cover and entangle in its fatty folds every single person who was causing all that trouble.

(Actually I thought of honeycomb tripe first, but caul fat is easier to work with. And besides, I’m not crazy about anything along the lines of the name ‘Tripe Sistuh’.)

But what do real Superheroes actually eat? This is important to know. I looked to the BBC for answers, and as always, the BBC came up with some.

Some superheroes need various foodstuffs to give them their strange but wonderful powers. Eric is just a normal schoolboy but if he eats a banana he becomes Banana-Man. When Olive Oyl is in trouble, Popeye opens up a can of spinach and becomes a regular pillar of strength, and all that is needed to give Scooby Doo a little encouragement is a Scooby Snack – a rather delicious dog biscuit. The Flash burns calories in a flash, and in order to re-energise has to eat copious amounts of burgers, fries and power-shakes without any affect on his fabulous skin, and Roger Ramjet would never find the strength to beat up the bad guys without his Proton Energy Pills. Superheroes who get their powers this way all suffer from the same problem – those powers wear off without a constant supply of their magic food.

The first time I read this I scanned it too fast and got a bit worried, for I thought Roger Ramjet was eating Protose Energy Pills and it shrunk my image of him. Protons – now there’s something fine to eat. Protose I still have my doubts about.

It’s good to live in a world filled with Superheroes. I hope the chocolate doesn’t melt too soon.

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One of the great things about Gastronomica is that Darra Goldstein knows a lot about art. What I mean to say is that she knows a lot about Art. The good stuff, the stuff that is capitalized, the stuff that is artlessly artful.

Another one of the good things about Gastronomica is that there is a page on the website which features some of the AIF (Artists-In-Food) who grace the pages of the print journal. So right from the virtual page one can browse and click on the artist’s pages and see even more of their work.

What’s that you say?

Oh. Where’s the link?

Right here!

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Branston

by Branston, P.I.

It was 2:30 AM by the clock at my bedside and I’d awoken with a sudden start. Lightning briefly flashed outside my window. Something felt terribly wrong.

We were staying at the country estate of Kincaid Eblowster, the world-famous art critic. He’d hired me to find the jewels that had been stolen from an art installation during a performance piece the previous weekend. Naturally I brought Boris along in case any manual labor was required.

Why was I sure something was wrong? Granted, the decor in the guestroom was not of the usual sort but was that really enough to give me pause?

Damien Hirst

After all, it was not everyone who could have the pleasure of sleeping on a hard cot with an egg-crate table in the same room as Damien Hirst’s Ode to Rene Magritte and Francis Bacon and I was quite tickled by the experience. An honor indeed.

It came to me in a flash what was wrong. Boris was gone. But where? And why?

I knew it was an impossibility that he was anywhere in the house for he could always be heard within one-quarter mile with that snort-like way he had of breathing that had been caused in his youth by trying to swallow a pigeon (grilled with plum sauce) whole one glorious Autumn day while playing eating games with his mates.

Grabbing my flashlight I ran through the house. No Boris. He must have been kidnapped.

As I approached the kitchen there was a small funny noise. It sounded like a little slurp. And as I heard it I realized there was an even worse problem than Boris being kidnapped – I was hungry. Really really hungry.

The large gleaming surfaces of the kitchen looked too clean and perfect to actually have any food around and upon searching the cupboards indeed it was true. This was a house where nobody cooked.

I heard the noise again, and thinking that perhaps it was Boris laying half-unconscious from lack of nutrients I followed the sound. Out the door and towards the lake house. A scratching noise seemed to be coming from behind the dark windows. Approaching carefully I raised my flashlight and prepared to crash it down on the head of whomever was lurking there. Hopefully it would be the perpetrator of the jewel robbery and I could be on my way to the next case or to the Fat Duck, whichever happened first.

Kicking open the door with a loud scream, I viewed the scene.

snack cat

There he was! The thief, caught in the act! Jewels were strewn all over the floor of the tiny lake house interspersed with piles of catnip. The perpetrator had obviously settled down for a drink to celebrate his dreadful criminal accomplishment when I’d burst into this pretty little scene.

He mewed dreadfully and started to draw close. Unsure of whether he was armed or not I crouched on the floor, preparing to defend myself.

He jumped on my lap, rapidly knocking his head into my tummy and as he did so I noticed a carton of cereal on a nearby table. Food. I was so hungry.

As he continued to batter at me with his little claws it came to me that perhaps if I were to be his friend he would share the cereal. Granted this was going over the line of professionalism but after all one never knows where the next bite will come from. I petted his head and he purred. Okay. I could deal with this.

We shared the cereal and milk and when he fell asleep on the corner of the old battered couch I gathered up the jewels to return to Kincaid. The case was solved. Except for Boris. Where was Boris?

Tripping up the lane to return to my guestroom it came to me. Boris was not there because he’d gone to visit his poor old mother the evening before and had decided to not return till morning, preferring his childhood home to sleeping in art installations.

He’d missed a fine snack. I hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

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