The internet fucking sucks. It is terrible and is ruining everything. At least, the people on the internet are terrible and are ruining everything.
The internet itself is an amazing place. It’s the kind of place you go when someone says “fried dandelions” and you say “I’m going to go find out about that” and so you internet, and you do. Go ahead and look. It’s not quite as saturated a market as, let’s say, basil pesto, but there’s enough to go on.
I grew up in a divisive chocolate chip cookie household. I wanted to just sit around and eat raw cookie dough, but my mom wanted to bake them and then keep baking them: thin, crisp, what we might even call “burned” or, as a friend has it, “culinary brown”.
Recently, I’ve been bothered by a perceived over-use of the word (and concept of) “authentic”. It’s become a potent buzz-word at least within the food media world, and I’ve noticed it increasingly, perhaps because I’m primed for it, across other conversations, as well.
I’ve been spending a lot of time mulling this over in my mind, and I’ve decided that there are some uses that bother me, and some that don’t so much. They can roughly be divided into two classes: internally-ordained authenticity and externally-ordained authenticity. This is just what I’ve come up with over several weeks of casual ruminating; the world has no shortage of other classification systems, such as those discussed here, which to some extent overlap with the way I am seeing this proposed dichotomy. And there are plenty of uses of the word that don’t really fit neatly into these two classes, either. I use them only as a proxy to discuss the way conversations about experiential (and cultural) phenomena take place and the power dynamics within them.
Today, I want to talk about how really annoying shit can happen sometimes even when you are having a sweet day of skiing at a sick mountain. Case in point: on day 3 (and final ski day) of a trip to Mt. Bachelor (thanks, now-defunct MAX Pass), I was teaching my friend and ski buddy on the trip how to telemark, a sport that I have engaged in for the past 8 (eight) (8) consecutive ski seasons, exclusively.
I shouldn’t need to credential myself to set up this story, but I will anyway, just to quash the temptation to nay-say my point of view.
Tonight’s dinner menu is brought to you by this beautiful coffee table decoration that doubles as a cookbook:
Upon hearing that dinner was going to be a frittata (boring — I love breakfast for dinner as much as the next gal but when you eat an egg sandwich almost every morning, doing it again ten hours later just seems uninspired), I opened cookbook nearest my hand for some more out-of-the-ordinary inspiration. That cookbook happened to be Fire and Ice, a cloth-covered photo-essay-cum-“home-cooking”-expedition through the Great White North.