Tag Archives: Like

Peanuts

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Noun: Peanuts.  Opinion: Like.

Noun credit: Igor.

mrpeanut

I intended for a different noun today, but it’s Friday so let’s take a load off.  Today’s opinion is brought to you by peanuts.  Crunchy, nutty, nutritious and downright dapper in a top hat and monocle.  Try and tell me that you didn’t have a little bit of a crush on Mr. Peanut in your younger days.  Or was it just me?

Well, maybe this will convince you.  Peanuts have a very impressive resume.  They’ve pretty much cornered the legume butter market, and for a while they were the snack of choice among all the major airlines, and even when you don’t think you want any you find yourself eating them from the delicate little wooden bowl resting atop the bar.  They are accommodating little nuts, with easy-to-peel shells (yeah, I’m looking at you Brazil nut, too good for everybody no one cares you’re a seed) and are deliciously flexible, whether honey-roasted, salted, or encased in an M&M.

They were also the cause of the largest food recall in U.S. history this year, causing nine deaths and countless illnesses due to salmonella poisoning.  WTF, peanut?  Yes, that salmonella—the bacteria found in the reproductive systems of chickens and grounds on which restaurants all over the country have forsaken the properly poached egg.  What were you doing fraternizing with a strain usually found in the deep, clammy quarters of a raw chicken breast?  And why didn’t the FDA do anything to prevent it after the 2007 Peter Pan peanut butter recall?  You were trying to warn us, but blinded by our love and your innocent countenance, we failed to heed your alarm.

You are also deceptively allergenic.  A single child with an overactive immune system can prohibit your presence in an entire school system.  Children across the nation are denied their proper diet of PBJs with a single-serving packet of nacho cheese Doritos and a carton of chocolate milk.  Does this happen in any other country?  What the hell is going on here?

Alas, poor peanut.  You are the parakeet in the mine, the seven-legged frog in the millpond by the nuclear plant.  Something is amiss in the food supply of the country, something is profoundly wrong with what and how Americans are eating.  Consumption has been so hard hit that the National Peanut Board (I wonder if they’re hiring?) has taken to large-scale ad campaigns on the New York subway.  But it’s not you, it’s us.

We bear witness to the death of the peanut.  Adieu, fair legume, we loved thee well.  And, uh, happy Friday.

Ikea

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Noun: Ikea.  Opinion: Like.

Noun credit: Kathrin.

ikea

The most democratized of furniture retailers, Ikea has become the go-to location for the proletariat’s houseware needs.  Trips to the store take on the gravitas of pilgrimages.  The brand evokes a sunny, youthful image, and there are few of us that can resist its appeal.

The goods of Ikea are so ubiquitous that it often brings about exchanges such as the following:

Friend visits respectably outfitted abode and wanders into kitchen for a drink.

“Help yourself,” I say, casual and convivial host that I am.

Friend reaches into cupboard.  “Oh, my God!” she exclaims.  “I have these glasses!”

Beat.  “Oh, really?” I say, casually and convivially.

“Yeah.  They’re from Ikea, right?”

“Yeah.”

Awkward pause.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Meatloaf.”

What just happened there?  As beloved as Ikea is, it is not a terribly aspirational brand.  And in acknowledging that we were both proprietors of Ikea goods we admitted to a common membership in the subsegment of the working class that seeks the clean, modern lines of Scandinavian chic but can’t quite afford the trademarks that come without any assembly required.  Any effort you make of trying to hoodwink your friends into thinking you were successful and elegant are revealed, as theirs are to you.  From this point forward, you side-eye their clothes (Loehmann’s), their coifs (Supercuts), and their watches (Chinatown).  You’ll look around your own quarters which once seemed so stylishly equipped and start perceiving it as rather commercial and banal.

Such thoughts are easily extinguished with a visit to the store, however.  There is a thrilling quality to seeing new, gibberishly-named Ikea furniture before normal wear and tear make them disintegrate within a matter of months.  The bright lighting make their ridiculous chairs seem contemporary and fresh, and the euphoria of buying window treatments at such discounts induce a temporary amnesia about how impossible they are to install.  There is magic in Ikea stores.  A wondrous, dreamlike enchantment that make even the insipid meatballs taste savory and delicious.

So, why fight it.  Take your hard-earned dollars and spend it on your very own Framstå bookcase.  Sweden has much to be proud of as the world’s most popular exporter of furniture, cold, and lingonberry jam.

Opinions

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Noun: Opinions.  Opinion: Like.

purple

Opinions are often just verbal shortcuts to signal one’s identity.  This is why we often don’t care what people we know think.  They’ve been figured out, so we’re not getting any real information.  For example, a mother telling her scrawny, wonk-toothed middle-aged son that he is a handsome young man says nothing about the man, but says a lot about the glorious favoritism practiced by moms the world over.  Well-adjusted children everywhere dismiss their parents’ opinions, and it is a testament to a healthy parent-child relationship.

Take the same child, place him on the street and have a gaggle of attractive strangers laugh at him, and he cares very deeply.  Who are they?  They must be better than he is.  Of course, this display of opinion says more about the strangers (rude bitches) than him (fly open), but it doesn’t change how much weight the opinion itself carries.

On the other hand, if you take the degree of separation too far (say, the blogosphere), few can be bothered to care about a random screed of tortured opining.  But some of us are compelled to share, anyway.  Perhaps through an overdeveloped judgment muscle built through the steroidal effects of living in New York, or maybe as a reaction to the requisite self-censorship that accompanies being a functional member of normal society.  Whatever it is, opinions will be expressed.

The possession of opinions itself is a signal.  There are some things that are just not worth developing an opinion about as far as I’m concerned, such as a “favorite color”, but we often see people attached to a single wavelength on the spectrum with the fervor of a zealot.  In South Street Seaport there used to be a kiosk run by a woman who sold everything in purple.  In fact, it may have even been called “Everything Purple” or something equally nuanced.  I didn’t have to talk to that woman to know certain things about her (single…collection of stuffed animals with names…possibly owner of more than one cat, the smell from which she masks with purple potpourri).  It wasn’t the purple.  It was that she had such a strong, nonsensical opinion about a color.  God bless her, you know?  If only everyone signaled with such clarity, we would save ourselves from many a missed deadline, avoid traffic collisions, and all be in happy marriages.

Opinion is also one of those words that if you type often enough starts to look wrong.  Type it fast enough and you end up with “onion” which calls to mind that it’s time to eat.  I have a lot of opoinons…opinons…opnions…I like eating.