Greetings and salutations, internet. It is I, your culinary adventurer, M.S. Hardtack, back again to report from the front lines of irresponsible eating.
Pictured here is what I have tastefully named Mammy’s Own Cottage Pie. A friend made this pie for me to presumably ingest.Before I decided to turn it into a fine whip (pronounce the h) using my plastic fork it was stratified and differentially colored and uneven and resembled more closely some forgotten medical sample. At one time it had a layer of mashed potatoes, some dark meat-substance and a healthy thick skin of processed, cooked, melted, refrigerated, congealed, microwaved and re-melted cheese, but then I sort of beat it with my plastic utensil until it looked like this. Don’t ask me why, it’s my goddam cottage pie and I’ll do whatever the hell I want to it.
At any rate, I gotta be frank: it smelled better than Jesus Christ’s Own Salty Aftershave ™. It smelled beefy and salty and cheesy and then beefy again. The four and half minutes I had to wait while I microwaved the living shit out if it was the longest four and a half minutes of my Monday morning. At last I removed it from the microwave and was able to tip the plastic container in a way that I was able to slide this food-slurry straight into my waiting gullet. In addition to the usual ratings I am here to say two things only:
1. Microwave this for NO MORE than four minutes before pouring it down your neckhole or risk a blistered esophogus.
2. Permitting you did not microwave this for more than four minutes you will agree that this foodstuff is almost the ultimate combination of flavor and convenience. The next step is to put it on a stick.
Below, the usual ratings:
Meat, cheese, spice. Lines your gut-tubes like cheap caulk. Taste is somewhere between Grandma’s Lasagne and the pizza you don’t remember buying but is still next to you in bed when you awaken, choking on your own sick, at 4 am.
Yeah, that’s right. Eleven. For that paste. What, you got a problem with that? Listen: Food-as-paste is the future. I am in a position to know that in the year 2914 food aesthetic will be dead. Yes, I may be a time traveller from 900 years in the future. Yes, I am a goddamn trendsetter.
…look, don’t bust my chops. When you are going for ease, sacrifices are made. See below: “Hassle”.
A “1” means this was essentially hassle-free. If necessary, one can eat Mammy’s Own Cottage Pie with their stupid hands, shoveling it into one’s maw like a fucking animal.
Je ne sais quoi: 5.5/11
I think this dish is reminiscent of François Pierre de la Varenne’s famous mille-feuille, if it had been made with human fat and goat hooves and cooked in a rusty iron drum over a tire fire by a gas station attendant with syphilitic insanity in the dead of night under the star-choked skies outside of Gun Barrel City, Texas.
Snooty Addendum: Because I do stuff like this and think stuff like this and eat stuff like this, statistically, a solid amount of you all do, too. The difference is that I am a sort of time-travelling writer/scientist ingesting such food-like substances for your explicit benefit whereas you are reading this because you’ve finished jacking it and have run out of things to do. You should be ashamed. ASHAMED.