JAMES LILEKS’ WEDNESDAY REVIEW OF MODERN THOUGHT:

It’s not that I don’t like the subject, or the writer. It’s a combination of the two into something that elevates “food journalism” into something very important. It is not very important, although of course I should talk.

Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps you will react differently to the first paragraph of this New Yorker profile, which I found mysterious: who the hell cares about any of this.

Alison Roman approves of creamed greens, knobby lemons, and iceberg lettuce. She’s a slicer of onions, not a dicer; a “ride-or-die corner person” when it comes to lasagnas and cakes. She doesn’t sift flour, soak beans, or peel ginger. Instapots are a no, as are runny dressings, tomatoes on sandwiches, apples as snacks, and drinks served up. Breakfast is savory. Naps are naked. Showers are “objectively boring” and inferior to baths. The thing to do, according to Roman, is to start the water, put on a towel, and head back into the kitchen. The amount of time it takes to fill the tub is roughly equivalent to the time it takes to tear up a loaf of stale bread, for croutons fried in chicken fat.

“You either like my style or you don’t, you’re into the vibe or not,” Roman told me.

* * * * * * * *

The distinction seems to be about the appearance of caring overly much. In Roman’s world, an admission of effort must be offset by an ungiven fuck.

Ladies and gentlemen, the New Yorker.

You can see the modern-day William Shawn looking at a poem submitted by Robert Frost, thinking “wouldn’t this be better if it was the fuck ungiven, not the road not taken?”

To be fair, this reads like an example of New York life attempting, somehow, to get back to what passes for normal there in some quarters, at least before the phrase “the Omicron Variant” became universally known. Read the whole thing.