Foodies. Just saying this moniker conjures a bunch of people with too much time on their hands musing about "mouthfeel" and "flavor nuances" and turning their noses up at anything that isn't inscrutably authentic or snobbishly highbrow. They imagine themselves to be thoughtful, sharp critics and think it is their personal responsibility to tell everyone what the best food is. And, should you disagree, well, then, you would just be wrong--and they would be aghast they that know such a person whose un-evolved tastes allow them to enjoy peasant fodder like a regular hot dog from a neighborhood stand.
These people are perverse. Seriously. Food is nourishment, not the acme of cultural awareness. That we as an American culture are, by and large, privileged enough to have more food than we could ever want doesn't mean we have to be dicks about it, debating the merits of one gourmet cupcake over the next while people fight for grains of rice the world over. And, come on, food tastes differently to different people, and taste has no bearing on class or intelligence or status. There is no best taco. There is no best pizza. If there were, we'd only need one ubiquitous restaurant serving each--and unless you think McDonalds is the best burger or Starbucks is the best coffee, the sheer diversity of restaurants, cuisines, food trucks, convenience foods, farmers markets, CSAs, and countless other food ventures should tell you that lots of people have lots of opinions and lots of favorites about what they like to eat.
I've been called a foodie before. For the record, I hate that word. I just like to eat. Really, I just think foodies are making it hard for people, like me, to like to eat and like to cook and like to talk about food to do all of these liking things without getting lumped into the en masse of food blowhards. This reminds me of a Mitch Hedburg joke: "I'm not a boating enthusiast. I'm just a guy who likes to boat."
So now that that's off my chest, I can confess that I'm pretty much an anti-foodie (surprise) and really, I don't love gourmet too much. I like food to be simple; to taste like its ingredients; to be recognizable; to be satisfying in taste, wholesomeness, emotionally. Yes, emotionally. Sharing meals with people is a basic rite of humanity, and it remains a deeply human way to bond with people.
And I also love trashy food. Like, fast food, junk food, 1950s food--jello molds, soup-mix dips, mayonnaise-laden salads. They taste like comfort to me. As does my tangy Macaroni Salad, which I made last week to just have on hand. It's totally 1950s--really, most macaroni salads are 1950s--and I say that absolutely endearingly. I almost never order macaroni deli salads, because they are never as good as I want them to be--as good as this one, or at least as good as I find this one to be. But people love it! Foodies might call this a guilty pleasure--but I say, there should be no guilt about it. It's just good, so get the gourmet chip off your shoulder and dig in like the rest of us (and, at my house, that's usually in front of the fridge, with a fork, eating right out of the container). And, like usual, it didn't last long. JUMP!
1950s Macaroni Salad
This is slightly adapted from my memories of an Aunt's salad, who I'm pretty sure left out the ham and used a container of Bacos instead--you know, the salad bacon bits, those bacon-like crunchy things that would amp up the 1950s factor here--and required making the salad the night before to allow the flavors to blend--and the bacos to soften. I like that version, and typing that made me long to make another batch with bacos, but I like the ham too. Hey, why not do both! Now that's an idea... Also, I make a sweet-tangy mayo sauce, but this same Aunt swears by Miracle Whip. This sauce really was trying to approximate the sweetish tang of the Whip, since I had none on hand.
1/2 lb elbow pasta
1/2 cup finely chopped onion (sweet or green)
1/2 cup diced red pepper
3 oz sharp cheddar cheese, diced
1/3 cup chopped ham (I get a 1/4" slice from the deli counter and chop it)
1/2 cup low-fat mayo
1 Tbsp sugar
1.5 Tbsp white vinegar
S&P
1. Boil pasta until soft (past al dente, but not mushy) in salted water; drain and allow to cool slighlty (10 minutes).
2. Meanwhile, whisk mayo, sugar and vinegar in a small bowl until blended, then season to taste.
2. Mix pasta, onion, pepper, cheese, and ham in a large bowl. Add dressing until sufficiently moist (you don't want it all white and creamy, just stuck together well enough). Add lots of freshly ground pepper, if you're like me. It's best if you let the flavors blend for an hour or two, then enjoy!
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