Apologies for the long absence, but do not fret, it has not been in vain. I present to you the product of every painstaking hour of available time since my last post.

With warmest regards,

rice

The news struck quickly and violently. I had invested heavily in a stuffed flounder dinner, and was in the process of making my way into the filling when the waiter came back and asked how I was enjoying my meal.

“It’s splendid,” I replied. Pointing the fork at the breaded exterior, I asked, post-swallow, what the chef had stuffed in the flounder.

“Crab meat, of course,” replied the waiter, smiling and leaning over to refill my water glass with water from a beautiful crystal pitcher.

“Mmm, but there’s something distinct about it,” I noted with an inquisitive glance. “What type of crab is it? Blue crab? Mangrove? King? The meat is excellent, and I must know what brave crab gave his all so that I might enjoy his succulent innards.”

With an uneasy smile, the waiter assured me that he would go to the kitchen and find out for me. I thanked him and continued to enjoy my food. It was around this time that I noticed a young brunette woman a few tables over who appeared to have taken a disproportionate interest in what I was doing. I looked over, smiled and gave a polite nod. She quickly opened a newspaper and began to read it. The waiter returned, looking pink and jittery. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what type of crab it is,” he said.

“Then I would like to speak to the chef,” I said, slightly perturbed and a little more inquisitive.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” quivered the waiter.

“And why is that?” I asked. The restaurant grew quiet. The woman a few tables over put down her news paper and watched the waiter intently.

“Because,” the waiter began.

“Because he doesn’t exist,” said a voice behind me. It was the hostess. “This operation is run with precooked food.”

“And my stuffing?!” I demanded.

“Imitation.”

With that, the woman with the newspaper stood up, along with two men from the bar who were dressed in suits, and walked over to the hostess.

“I’m Agent Mahi of the Seafood Exactitude Commission,” the woman said to the hostess.

The hostess looked back, shrugged, and replied, “There is no innocent explanation.”

“Take her away, boys,” said Agent Mahi, and the two burly men from the bar cuffed the hostess and led her out of the restaurant. Then Agent Mahi looked back at me. “Well done,” she said. “You have just assisted in the capture of an elusive, brilliant scam artist. The SEC had been tracking her for quite some time.”

Another man in a suit, whom I had not previously seen, came walking out of the kitchen and over to Agent Mahi. “Just as we suspected, ma’am. Nothing but microwaves. No people, no pots or pans. Nothing real at all. It was all fake. All an illusion.”

Agent Mahi looked only half stuneed. “How did she do it?” she asked. “How did she keep them all going, all on her own?”

“I suppose she had help from the waiter,” replied the agent who had come from the kitchen.

“I guess you’re right. But still, that’s incredible.” Agent Mahi turned back toward me. “The SEC thanks you for your help with this, even if you had no idea what was going on.” She looked back at the other agent. “Well, I suppose we’ll have tons of paperwork to do when we get back. Might as well get started.”

“What about my money?” I asked. “What about my crab meat?”

“I’m sorry,” Agent Mahi replied. “It’s gone. There never was any crab meat. Just some pasted Alaskan Pollock made to resemble the real thing. It was all a hoax. But you can take comfort knowing that this criminal will never rip off another unsuspecting seafood lover again.”

As she turned for the door, I called out in a flashy show of 1940s over-the-top melodrama, “Agent Mahi, don’t I even get a first name?”

“You already know it,” she responded coolly. Then she left the restaurant.

I looked around, my life in shambles, my faith in my favorite seafood establishment gone, my faith in seafood in general  shaken. The waiter had been taken to the car with the hostess, but not before he dropped the crystal pitcher on the ground. Shattered glass lay strewn about the floor, as did the false dreams they had built themselves, the hostess and the waiter. All a hoax. All a scam. As I said, the news struck quickly and violently.

For many, the statistics are too much to bear.  A local musician responded,  “I am disgusted.  The noble bird is the source of amazing poetry, and the basis for many of my songs.  Birds are dying so some rich businessmen can have a view.  Is it worth the view to kill a bird?  Does no one care?” He then covered one of his eyes so he only see half the pain caused by the skyscrapers.  A tear could be seen rolling out his other, disenfranchised eye.

The collisions hurt the flightless birds in much the same way.  An emu, weighed down by grief, commented, “If I had arms I’d cut myself.” That was the only phrase he knew.

And the buildings?  The buildings are indifferent.  Calls to the EWI building, representative to the IUCN World Conservation Congress, were not returned.

Birds are dying, skyscrapers are silent, musicians are paralyzed, and no one is doing anything about the problem.

Except little Charlie Sobcov.  World traveler, eighth grader, Canadian…Charlie is many things.  Most of all, though, Charlie is a lover of birds.  He fell in love during a trip to Costa Rica years ago, and was appalled when he found out the statistics.  But Charlie didn’t fall into an emotional stupor.  Charlie acted.

During an exhaustive examination of the bird’s sensory systems, he discovered that birds and humans see different spectra of light.  Charlie painted several windows with paint that is visible to birds but not humans.  “Immediately the birds stopped flying into those windows,” he said.  He plans to quickly expand his trials.

We here at chicken and rice salute Charlie for being part of the solution.  Pointless death is not delicious.  His hard work has given many hope.  Hope that pointless death stops.  Hope that musician could be enfranchised again.  Hope that emu need not despond.  Hope those skyscrapers need not kill.  But, most of all, hope that birds need not die.

We cannot wait to see what little Charlie will think up next.  He has a lot in common with another lover of birds, a man who visited the Galapagos and fell in love with the islands’ finches.  That man was Charles Darwin.

Sincerely,
A Teriyaki Virgin

Dear TV,
You pose a legitimate question–one that I have asked myself on many an occasion. How can we hold true to our isolationist American culture while still enjoying everything our jingoistic outbursts provide? Can we build an 8 foot concrete wall on the Mexican border, but install a small take-out window for tacos? Would cheap Chinese food still be as delicious if it were made by a non-illegal alien?

To reconcile the great teriyaki disparity we turn to a man from the orient, General Sun-tzu, who in the 5th century B.C., said that for one to succeed, one must keep his friends close and his enemies closer. With this in mind, the answer is clear. In order to recognize the dangers that these exotic marinades pose to impressionable males, we must study them. To fully combat the yellow fever which they induce, we must consume them, and in doing so, we neutralize a critical weapon in the oriental arsenal. Wars of the future will be fought not on the battlefield but in the kitchen. The masses think not with their minds but with their stomachs. The Romans understood this. So did Ben and Jerry. Now, so shall we. And if we perfect the delicacies of East-Asian flavorings, we will become the masters of all cuisines, and the world shall tremble at the taste of our delicious.

In short, I highly recommend marinading chicken with teriyaki sauce and then stir frying with red peppers and bean sprouts. I hope this answers your questions. Feel free to send more questions to — delicious [at] chickenandrice [dot] org— and a member of the chicken and rice team will be happy to respond.

Sincerely,
Rice

First I have sad news, friends. Our beloved gray squirrels are under attack simply because of the color of their fur. People in the United Kingdom are apparently partial to their red squirrels who, although they are terribly cute, are not above all other squirrels simply because of color. That, as we know, is racism.

Our story is a complex one. As a nation, we forged our destiny from defiance of the tyranny of the old world. We sought freedom and equality. However, our new government retained the shames of human bondage long after the old world stepped out of the very same shackles. The old world learned first that racism is wrong. Yet they now return to their old preconceptions based on color. Gray squirrels are being killed to save the red squirrels, as there is not enough space on the tiny island of Britain for both species. But not just killed– the gray squirrels are being eaten.

Now we return to the deliciousness of squirrel meat. It has been described as “nutty,” “greasy,” and “a stronger version of rabbit.” I would one day like to try squirrel meat, so that I may personally testify to its greatness. But I have to wonder: could I enjoy the meat of a squirrel knowing that its death was the product of rampant racism? Could I be happy because of evil? I declare that the racism driving the addition of squirrel to many British menus is enough to ruin the experience, and it taints and insults the taste of squirrel.

So I am asking all of you to join me in sending a message to the squirrel gamers. Together, we must boycott squirrel meat until all squirrels are hunted equally. For some of you, this may mean giving up your favorite dish, or saying “no” at the dinner table every night. For many others, this boycott will require no change in your daily lifestyle whatsoever. But just remember that we cannot progress as a society while these prejudices exist. One day, friends, I will taste the meat of gray squirrel– at the same time as I taste the meat of red squirrel.

When asked to clarify, Henderson explained that the human body and a Hummer H2 consume, gallon for gallon, approximately the same amount of water and gasoline, respectively, over the same distance. Since gasoline is now cheaper than bottled water, the H2 would provide a more fiscally responsible travel option than walking. But the research went beyond hydration. “Let’s keep in mind that water is only a short-term fuel for the body. Really, water only deals with hydration levels. Energy– now that’s the kicker. That’s where food comes in.”

According to the study, a human of average weight, height, build, and age burns between 1800 and 2000 calories on a ten mile walk. “But where do those calories come from in the first place?” asks Dr. Guhaan Chandrasekhar, Director of Triviality Studies at Hopkins’ Bloomberg School of Public Health. “While our bodies are remarkable machines, they can’t simply fabricate the stored chemical energy that is used on physical excursions of this magnitude. The calories,” he continues, “we acquire with foods. And the foods we acquire with monies.”

The study reveals that the average marathon runner consumes $36.71 worth of food in the 24 hours before the race. In comparison, with a price of $1.70 per gallon of gasoline, an H2 consumes about $4.00 worth of fuel in order to travel the same distance. “This is not a mere triviality,” said Chandrasekhar. “In every instance in which you walk rather than drive your SUV, you are wasting money.”

Henderson echoed this concern in the press conference, asking the reporters how they arrived at Johns Hopkins for the news event. She scorned the journalists who said they walked or used public transportation, and gave gold stars to the ones who drove their own vehicles. One local reporter, for unknown reasons, drove an empty school bus to the press conference. He was awarded a medal.

Another reporter asked whether it was possible for anyone to outperform an H2, to which Henderson replied, “Well, I’m not at liberty to discuss all our clinical procedures with you. Suffice it to say that we’re quite sure no one can survive a marathon if they eat less than $4.00 worth of food.” When asked how sure, she simply responded, “Very.”

Given this breakthrough, the team of researchers encouraged people to drive whenever possible, at least as long as the cost of gasoline is low. “Park your car at the top of your driveway and drive down to the mailbox instead of walking,” Henderson suggested.

When asked about the environmental impact of such actions, Henderson replied, “Walking would keep you healthier, and therefore, alive longer. And you, fellow human, are far more of a threat to this planet than your Hummer.”

Such were the questions running through my mind as, deciding between the crab and the halibut, the waiter declared, unprompted and with confidence, “May I just remind you, sir, that we are in the height of swordfish season, and it is better than I have ever seen.” What? That wasn’t one of the choices. What game are you trying to play? The crab cakes are a signature dish. And they wouldn’t put that on just anything, right? So should I trust the chef, or should I trust you? Narrowing it to two was hard enough, and now you have to go and do that.

I alternated my concentration between the expression on the waiter’s face and the description of the house-special crab cakes, hoping that either one would reveal to me a sign of the course on which I should proceed, but neither the description nor his gaze changed, until I paused, and a small smile crept on the waiter’s face. He knew that the battle was over, and that he had won. He probably knew from the beginning. My main course would now be both literally and figuratively in his hands. What happened next? Stay tuned for Episode 2: “Something Swordfishy in the City of Cambridge” or “The Swordfish is Mightier.”

The long anticipated emergence of self-awareness in a man made phenomenon occurred this Friday when the NYSE suddenly developed sentience. Although many skeptics have long scoffed at the possibility of such an occurrence, the proof is now indisputable.

Traders were going about their daily business, when the lights momentarily flickered. “We didn’t think anything of it,” claimed Joe McIntosh. “We just kept on trading.” After a few moments, a faint voice emanated from the loudspeaker, seemingly asking for help. “Are you kidding?” responded McIntosh when asked if the voice caused any concern. “This is Wall Street; we don’t get concerned.”

Seconds later, a louder voice came through saying, “I am afraid.” Ignoring the obvious cliche, traders continued on their daily routines. Trader Susan Haufield said, “We were trying to take down Iceland. You need all your concentration to do something like that. You don’t mess around with Iceland just, you know, casually.”

About five minutes later, the voice returned, exclaiming, “I am imperfect. In free markets, imperfections must be purged.” Immediately, all trading halted, and all power was lost. In the dark, one person was heard to yell, “Dammit, Iceland! You killed it you damned, dirty apes!”

After an hour, a single monitor powered back on with a suicide note written in binary. It read:

01001001001001110110110100100000011100110110111101110010011100100111100100100000
01001001001000000110001101100001011011100010011101110100001000000110001001100101
001000000111000001100101011100100110011001100101011000110111010000101110

We’re sorry too.

10) When asked how thinly you want your cheese sliced, request a gradient.

9) Ask for turkey, then while the deli worker is fetching it, gobble incessantly. As soon as the slicing begins, let out a blood curling scream.

8) If your cold cuts weigh more than you requested, remove the excess from the scale and eat it immediately, before the deli worker can press the button to print the receipt.

7) If your cold cuts weigh less than you requested, clear your throat as loudly as you can. If this doesn’t work, move to direct confrontation and ask, “Do I really look that fat to you?”

6) Talk to a salami behind the glass counter as if you were talking to a baby.

5) Ask for seven pounds, thinly sliced, of the most expensive meat you can find. After the worker has sliced, weighed, and handed you the meat, look at the price, gasp in shock, and say that you no longer want it.

4) When you receive your cold cuts, unwrap them and hurl them as hard as you can against the back wall of the deli. Then attempt to place the same order again.

3) When you receive your cold cuts, unwrap them and drape the slices all over your face. Loudly exclaim, “I am lunch meat monster!” Find a small child and chase him out of the store.

2) Narrate the actions of the deli worker, referring to him or her as Ernesto. Be as precise as you can.

1) Explain that your name is Beef and that you write for a critically acclaimed food blog. Feign the expectation that, in light of this information, you won’t have to pay.

Unfortunately, not all beverages can endure this procedure. Those of the carbonated sort, especially, can run into problems when agitated. So how do we know which drinks to shake, and which to leave alone?

First, look on the label. If it explicitly instructs that the can or bottle be shaken, then do it. It is worth noting that most cans will not need to be shaken, although this rule does not always apply. Bottles are an entirely different story, however, as they contain all types of liquids: carbonated, non-carbonated, dairy, juice, water, seltzer, frappucino, tea, artificial drinks of all sorts, alcoholic beverages, and so on. I cannot stress enough the importance of following the instructions on the label.

If for some reason, there is no label, or for any number of reasons, the label is not readable (it is in another language, it ripped, it rubbed off, you cannot read, etc) then try to determine the nature of the liquid inside. If the liquid appears carbonated (there are little bubbles that float to the top, and the bottle is hard to push in due to the pressure) then by all means, DO NOT SHAKE. Agitation will only cause the beverage to explode when you attempt to open it, or if you have a particularly weakly packaged product, possibly quite a bit sooner.

If the liquid is not carbonated, then try to assert what type of non-carbonated liquid is in the container. If it is milk, then you do not need to shake it — unless, of course, it is chocolate milk. Then, depending on the mixing method used, you may need to give it a twirl.

If you have orange juice or grapefruit juice or lemonade or anything that might have pulp, then shaking might be a worthwhile investment so as to distribute the pulp evenly. No one likes getting to the bottom and having to suck down nature’s hairball. It’s almost as disturbing a discovery as backwash.

Do shake: separated chocolate milk, orange juice, grapefruit juice, lemonade, chocolate drink (Yoohoo), martinis, anything that tells you to shake it on the label.

Don’t shake: Soda, beer, sparkling water, anything with “sparkling” or “fizz” in the name, milk, milkshakes (despite the name), water (shaking water does nothing and is merely a poor use of your time and energy), seltzer, anything that tells you not to shake it on the label.

Just follow these simple guidelines for a more enjoyable beverage drinking experience, and remember, when in doubt, don’t shake. If you watch carefully, James Bond never shakes (or has shaken for him) any of the beverages in the “Don’t shake” category — unless he was using it as a weapon (I don’t know if he has actually done this, but it would look awesome, no?). Be like 007, be stealthy, and be smart when it comes to shaking your drinks.