In 2006 Dave Barry wrote
a blog post describing the phenomenon of children and cupcakes. His essay did
not, as you might expect, sing the praises of the cupcake, but rather focused
in on one essential truth:
“Turns out kindergarteners don't use the cupcake for anything other than a
Frosting Delivery Platform (FDP). You could bring your frosting in on top of
rocks, or pine cones, or tame (or frozen) squirrels, and the kids would just
lick the frosting layer off and leave the naked FDP for you to dispose of.”
The cupcake, serving in Barry’s scenario as the
FDP, is of little significance. What is important to grasp from Barry’s
adventures in kindergarten culinary habits is this early passion that the
children have for food. They don’t just like the frosting, they love it. And they
love it as something more than just food. Frosting is bliss.
This essay struck a particular chord deep within me
for several reasons. The first being that I too, as a kindergartener,
understood that the cupcake was inconsequential, but the frosting really
mattered. I used to lick the top of my cupcakes clean and then hand them off to
my parents saying “here, you can have the rest,” and feeling genuinely
perplexed that they did not want the hunk of plain vanilla cake now covered not
in delicious whipped sugar but rather by my saliva. Catching on quickly to the
FDP dilemma, my mother put the kibosh on the wasted cake issue instantly, and
instituted the cookie rule instead, meaning that in lieu of cake, a rather
large chocolate chip cookie was always baked for my birthday parties. It’s no
surprise that I didn’t have that many friends.
Barry’s essay, however, sparked something else in
my imagination. What he had described in his essay was a human connection to
food that was absolute and eternally loyal. Only a truly devoted individual
would be able to make a commitment such as loving a food so much that he/she
would be willing to eat it off a frozen squirrel. And that’s when my squirrel
list started.
For those of you who know me, you understand the
power that the statement “that is so good, I would eat it off a squirrel,”
truly contains because, frankly, squirrels scare the bejesus out of me. I can
tolerate the squirrels that live in the woods behind my parents’ house on Cape
Cod because they mostly stick to themselves and their other squirrel friends.
However, it was not unusual to see a rather surly and obese squirrel rocket out
of a Skidmore College trash can carrying a whole bagel and perhaps the morning
paper. Side note: Scrat, the prehistoric squirrel fromIce Age is based on the Skidmore
College campus squirrels. Yes, this fact does come straight from Wikipedia and
should probably be discredited, but the point is, these squirrels are not to be
messed with.
What do you do when you find yourself in your twenties,
a statistic of the economic depression, underemployed, overtired, and less than
enthusiastic about what life is dishing out? You take any job you can get and
you eat good food with friends. That is what this blog is about. It’s about an
exceptional relationship with extraordinary food, but it’s also about several
talented individuals who could change the world if someone would just pay us to
do so (hey, food costs money, you know). But for now, we have decided that
instead of just surviving, because that’s what we do daily in our professional
lives, we can enjoy food in a way that makes the day deliciously worth toughing
out. I hope that the readers of this blog will be intrigued by our recipes and
reviews, learn to love food like we do, even be inspired to make their own
squirrel list, and realize that in the midst of an economic wasteland, good
food will save your sanity.
-Jessica Spier
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