Monthly Archives: April 2013
Health Treasure Gruel sounds like something that would be served to prisoners who were being held captive by Wong Lo Kat. This really applies to anything called “gruel”, since that’s not a word one normally associates with gourmet dining. This particular gruel, which is a product of Chin Jun I Food Industrial Co., Ltd., comes in a large bag that contains 18 individual packets (or “sachets”). Each one explains the health benefits of Health Treasure Gruel: “Includes each kind of vitamin group, extremely rich, when breakfast edible, moistens the effect to human body to be out of the ordinary.”
Well. Alright. With that out of the way, the only thing left to do was actually try the Health Treasure Gruel. It has two types of ingredients: main ingredients and sub-ingredients. The main ingredients are: Job’s tears, yam, lotus seed, and Gordon euryale seed. The sub-ingredients are: coarse rice, oats, black sesame, white sesame, red barley, black bean, soybean, glucose, and non-dairy creamer. With such a great mix of healthy ingredients, it’s no wonder they call it Health Treasure Gruel.
The gruel is an orangeish-beige color, and in spite of its ingredients, is surprisingly non-offensive. It’s nearly edible, which is more than one can say for Ching Poo Luong and Adlay Oatmeal Deluxe. I’m not usually a gruel person, but if I had to eat gruel, I’d probably choose the Health Treasure variety. Besides, who wouldn’t want to eat something that moistens the effect to human body to be out of the ordinary? I like being out of the ordinary.
As a service to the readers of Armenian Fungus Cake, we present you with a photographic guide to identifying things that are not Pocky.
I hope this guide will help you to avoid any unfortunate Pocky-related misunderstandings. Next up, “Gordon Ramsay vs. Gordon Euryale Seed”.
From Podravka comes this odd can of meat known as Pork Luncheon Patty Loaf. It’s a product of Croatia, so the most surprising thing about it is the fact that it’s not made by Kraš. It’s good to see that there is some competition in the world of Croatian convenience foods.
For a product that comes straight from Zagreb, the package is surprisingly English-dominated, with only two words in Croatian. The English portion makes it clear that this is a “luncheon” food, and includes a picture of it cut into triangular slices and served with sliced cucumbers. No surprise there, since I always think of triangular pork patty loaf with cucumbers whenever I think of lunch.
The two words in Croatian point to another possible time when one might eat this pork patty loaf. There at the bottom of the can, and presumably not intended for English-speakers, are the words “VIKEND DORUČAK”. A bit of research reveals that this means “weekend breakfast”. So in Croatia, it seems that the first thing one might eat in the morning (but only on the weekend) would be some triangular slices of pork patty loaf.
Considering that this loaf tasted and smelled like a giant vienna sausage with lots of extra air bubbles and occasional pieces of skin, I think I’ll stick to my traditional weekend breakfasts.
Are you sick of your low-class leisure food lifestyle? Do you want more out of life than pork rinds, mini donuts, and corn dogs? You’re in luck, because now you can enjoy Great Burdock Biscuits from High Class Leisure Food! One bite of these classy crackers will cure you of unsophisticated snacking forever. No longer will you be baffled by brie or mystified by muenster. Instead of corn dogs, you’ll now eat skewered Frankfurt sausages wrapped in corn souffle with truffle aioli. Your mini donuts will magically become fried puff pastry rings with a dusting of cane juice crystals. As for pork rinds, well, those will always be pork rinds, since there’s really nothing you can do to make them sound classy.
And if you find that your high-class leisure food life just doesn’t satisfy you the way you thought it would, you can also use these crackers as a mild profanity to express your displeasure, as in, “Great Burdock Biscuits, those tasted terrible!”
It has come to my attention that my recent absence has resulted in the spread of wild rumors regarding my whereabouts. Let me assure you that I have neither joined the Vast Soursop Conspiracy nor defected to East Mangoustan. In reality, I’ve returned from a trip to the Taiwan Mochi Museum. Normally this would have only taken a few days, but continued budget cuts meant that I had to float there on a makeshift raft composed of garbage bags and foam peanuts with only a Boxum Notebook Fan for propulsion. Since I couldn’t risk dropping my computer into the ocean, the fan provided very little propulsion, indeed.
Now I’m not actually saying that my harrowing eight-week experience was in any way related to the fact that you guys aren’t buying t-shirts from the t-shirt shop. I’d never accuse you fine readers of such a terrible thing. I’m just saying that I had to float to Taiwan on a garbage bag because stowing away in a cargo container would have been too expensive. That’s all I’m saying.
When I first arrived, I was very hungry, since it’s not really possible to take much food along when one’s only means of floatation is half a bag of foam peanuts. I’m not saying this was anyone’s fault in particular. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for it. After eating all of the free sample mochi in the gift shop, I proceeded to explore the artwork.
Of all the exhibits in the Taiwan Mochi Museum, there are three that stand out in my mind even after my more-harrowing return home:
The first was a piece by well-known abstract artist Jefferson Catfish entitled 69,105, in which he appeared to have randomly tossed 69,105 pieces of mochi at a canvas. Everyone else who saw it seemed to think it looked vaguely like a butterfly, but I’m pretty sure it was an elephant.
The next one was by an artist using the pseudonym Angry Narwhal and was a colossal 200-foot by 85-foot wooden replica of a mochi box bearing the likeness of the Marquise of Mochi herself (see above).
The final exhibit was marked with several warning signs, but I foolishly assumed that it couldn’t have been that bad. I should have known better. This work of mochi madness, by none other than Robert Ellmthorpe himself, proved to be unspeakably disturbing. I wish I’d heeded the warnings. I used to really enjoy mochi.
I know you think I’m making all of this up, but I’m really not. There is a Taiwan Mochi Museum. Go look it up. Maybe you can even visit it someday. Of course, you won’t have to cross shark-infested waters armed only with a cheap plastic USB fan to get there. I’m not placing blame for that, by the way. These things happen.