A Little Whine
Reblogged from extreme-irrelevancy
“The discrepancy between hummus‘ perceived value and its actual value is staggering. It’s a bunch of chickpeas that have been mushed together with extruded, viscous sesame juice and oil to form a mucilaginous paste. “Oooh,” you protest, “it’s got little hunks of dried-out garlic mixed in, I must be having fun.” You are already dead and in Hell, though you do not know it. By rights it is no better than spinach and artichoke dip, and yet many people – people who, under ordinary circumstances, appear to possess a fully functioning sense of aesthetics – accord it the enthusiasm ordinarily reserved for V-E Day. Try this little experiment sometime: throw a party and tell half your guests you’ll be serving “dip” (no need to get specific). Watch them show moderate enthusiasm and say something along the lines of, “I’ll try to make it.” Now for the other half of your guests – tell them they can expect homemade hummus. The men will start to weep unashamedly; the women will spontaneously turn into brightly colored songbirds. Everyone will lose their minds. It’s as if you promised them a personal benediction from Alice Waters. But by what rights does hummus hold such a claim on the human imagination? “But,” you equivocate, “you haven’t tried my hummus. I like to use white beans and a little bit of–” No. Shh. “There’s this wonderful Mediterranean market on 34th that does–” Hush now. Stop talking. I’m sure your method of whirling beans together is both glorious and unique, but hummus can never become anything better than itself. Hummus is grey and tan and dull; it is the color of hopelessness. Dip your pre-sliced carrot sticks in something – anything – else. It is a lie designed to convince you that you are having fun; it is not an adequate substitute for joy. Now go outside, if it’s nice out where you are, and eat something wonderful.”—
Mallory Ortberg doesn’t like hummus. (via fatmanatee)
The discrepancy between wine’s perceived value and its actual value is staggering. It’s a bunch of grapes that have been mushed together and allowed to ferment to form a volatile liquid. “Oooh,” you protest, “it’s got a fruity aftertaste, I must be having fun.” You are already dead and in Hell, though you do not know it. By rights it is no better than beer and lager, and yet many people – people who, under ordinary circumstances, appear to possess a fully functioning sense of aesthetics – accord it the enthusiasm ordinarily reserved for V-E Day. Try this little experiment sometime: throw a party and tell half your guests you’ll be serving “drinks” (no need to get specific). Watch them show moderate enthusiasm and say something along the lines of, “I’ll try to make it.” Now for the other half of your guests – tell them they can expect homemade wine. The men will start to weep unashamedly; the women will spontaneously turn into brightly colored songbirds. Everyone will lose their minds. It’s as if you promised them a personal benediction from Alice Waters. But by what rights does wine hold such a claim on the human imagination? “But,” you equivocate, “you haven’t tried my wine. I like to use white grapes and a little bit of–” No. Shh. “There’s this wonderful Mediterranean market on 34th that does–” Hush now. Stop talking. I’m sure your method of whirling grapes together is both glorious and unique, but wine can never become anything better than itself. Wine is red and white and dull; it is the color of candy cane. Have your cubed Brie with something – anything – else. It is a lie designed to convince you that you are having fun; it is not an adequate substitute for joy. Now go outside, if it’s nice out where you are, and drink something wonderful.
