I first heard of flavortripping last summer. I read an article in the New York Times
about a substance that altered tastes of reality. People were going to
underground parties for the experience. At these parties they would
consume Synsepalum dulcificum,
the Miracle Fruit. Once eaten, the fruit tells your taste buds to taste
things differently. It makes everything sweeter sweeter.
Over the last year, I was passively trying to find a flavortripping party. I expected that my band of foodie friends would have a hook-up. Alas, nothing panned out. So I decided to take my tongue into my own hands, and I sought out the mister responsible for these berries.
11 keystrokes into a search engine, yielded quick results: Miracle Fruit Man. He supplied the participants at the party covered by the New York Times. His plan was simple. If you send him 40 dollars (plus $28 s/h) he’d two-day express you 20 frozen berries.
I just wanted one.
The little bell on the glass door jingled and I became breathless with anticipation. He looked up just for a second and then turned back, took a large knife off the rack, and started slicing into the beef tenderloin
I am not now nor have I ever been a Girl Scout...mostly for the simple reason that I grew up on the upper west side of Manhattan and it just wasn’t a thing that we did. It wasn’t ever a viable option. I also felt that there would be only one reason to join and that that reason would designate me a traitor. I would not have joined to perform tasks to learn life skills or help humanity, I would have joined to have access to the greatest cookie in the world: The Thin Mint.
I've been trying to convince my sons that ramen is good for them. They're both living on their
own. They are serious about eating healthily and keeping to a budget.
They keep down their costs by avoiding processed foods and fast food
joints. They shop at Costco and buy in bulk.
Does Jiminy Cricket sit on your shoulder? He sits on mine – always has. The first time I saw Pinocchio; he jumped right off the screen and onto my shoulder and has been there ever since. If he were simply my conscience, I would consider that a good thing, but he is not my conscience; he is my worst critic!