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Quote by Jeff Swystun

“Simply put, if our relationship with food was rational, there would be no obesity. We pursue what feels good and eating certain foods is a biochemical way to reduce stress. Comfort food, such as TV dinners, “are tied to times and places that remind people of safety, joy, warmth and the flavors of childhood.” This is why Swanson dinners were re-marketed in 2007 as Swanson Classics proudly proclaiming them as the “Original TV Dinner” with the slogan “Swanson Classics, Comfort Food Then, Comfort Food Now.”

Quote by Jeff Swystun

Book:TV DINNERS UNBOXED: The Hot History of Frozen Meals
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TV DINNERS UNBOXED: The Hot History of Frozen Meals

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Jeff Swystun

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“There is an expectation difference when eating frozen meals. They have long been maligned and ridiculed. Early ones were said to taste metallic or bland or salty or a combination of the three. Their association as a lower-income staple has impacted perceptions. This is why even the most mediocre experience is elevated. The Swanson TV Dinner mostly satisfies but will never be confused with fine dining.”

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Book:TV DINNERS UNBOXED: The Hot History of Frozen Meals
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“Al parecer el apetito humano es sorprendentemente elástico, algo que tiene mucho sentido desde el punto de vista evolutivo: nuestro antepasados cazadores-recolectores consideraban apropiado darse un festín cada vez que se presentaba la ocasión, lo que les permitía almacenar reservas de grasa en previsión de futuras hambrunas. Los investigadores de la obesidad llaman a este rasgo -el gen ahorrador-. Y si bien este gen resulta muy útil como medio de adaptación en un entorno impredecible marcado por la escasez de comida, es un desastre en un entorno donde abunda la comida rápida y en el que las ocasiones para darse un festín se presentan veinticuatro horas al día, siete días a la semana. Nuestros cuerpos están almacenando reservas de grasa en previsión de una hambruna que nunca llega.”

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Book:The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals
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“Al parecer el apetito humano es sorprendentemente elástico, algo que tiene mucho sentido desde el punto de vista evolutivo: nuestros antepasados cazadores-recolectores consideraban apropiado darse un festín cada vez que se presentaba la ocasión, lo que les permitía almacenar reservas de grasa en previsión de futuras hambrunas. Los investigadores de la obesidad llaman a este rasgo -el gen ahorrador-. Y si bien este gen resulta muy útil como medio de adaptación en un entorno impredecible marcado por la escasez de comida, es un desastre en un entorno donde abunda la comida rápida y en el que las ocasiones para darse un festín se presentan veinticuatro horas al día, siete días a la semana. Nuestros cuerpos están almacenando reservas de grasa en previsión de una hambruna que nunca llega.”

BulimiaEvolucionComidaEvolutionary MismatchDietaObesidadComida RapidaGrasa
Book:The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals
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“The cuisine of Northern Iran, overlooked and underrated, is unlike most Persian food in that it's unfussy and lighthearted as the people from that region. The fertile seaside villages of Mazandaran and Rasht, where Soli grew up before moving to the congested capital, were lush with orchards and rice fields. His father had cultivated citrus trees and the family was raised on the fruits and grains they harvested. Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son. He pulled two kilos of fava beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.”

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Book:The Last Days of Café Leila
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“What is the best thing you've ever eaten?" Poulet rôti. I was sure that my mother was going to say the poulet rôti from L'Ami Louise in Paris because she'd sat next to Jacques Chirac there and he'd said that since she was a chef, perhaps she would cook something for him. And so she did. She went right back into the kitchen and whipped up something fabulous. After that, they used goose as well as duck fat when frying their potatoes, because it had been her way. I mouthed Poulet rôti into the pillow. But my mother was quiet. She could have made conversation, little noises while she was thinking. But she didn't. Lou didn't care. "Masgouf," she said. "From an Iraqi restaurant that's closed now." I sat up. I opened my mouth. I almost yelled, What? But she was still talking. "I went there with her dad years and years ago." I imagined her jerking her thumb in the direction of my room. "The company was like watching paint dry, but the food was fantastic. Out of this world." "And?" Lou said. "And," my mother said, "I went back a couple of years ago, just to see, and it was closed up. Totally empty and sad. One silver tray sat in the middle of the place, I remember. Broke my heart to pieces." "Masgouf?" Lou said. I was already out of bed, sockless and by the bookshelf, ripping through the index of The Joy of Cooking, then Cook Everything, then, finally, Recipes from All Over. I found it. "'Traditional Iraqi fish dish, grilled with tamarind and/or lemon, salt, and pepper,'" I whispered, shocked. "It was heaven," my mother said. "Literally heaven. I've tried to replicate it, I can't tell you how many times." For a second, I saw spots. I would have bet my life on it- on the poulet rôti. "You know how they say that life imitates art?" my mother said. "Well, life imitated masgouf. The fish was so good, so tender, and we ate it with our fingers. For a little while, I convinced myself that life could be so simple." Which meant happiness. Masgouf was my mother's happiness.”

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Book:Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots
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