People getting up in arms over language never ceases to be amusing. Singular they, could care less/couldn’t care less, literally/figuratively, all these arguments bring a smile to my face. “How insipid this all is!” I chortle to myself. “Language is a living, growing creature that morphs daily, and demanding it remain static is absurd. And people are morons, who have no understanding of what they are saying nor how to say it. These things can be true at the same time.”
Then a series of words flashes before my eye, releasing a tide of invective. A fugue state overtakes me. White-hot anger pumps in my veins.
Hubs. Littles. Preggers. Adorbs. Fam.
“Wow,” you think. “This dude hates how women talk!” Well, no. First, that’s sexist; I’m sure plenty of men use these words, and plenty of women have never had occasion to use a single one listed above. No, these are words that feature on recipe blogs, the bane of all humanity. A greater existential threat than pronouns, correct judging of care, and whether a figurative example can be in reality manifest.
Adblockers and popup blockers are required for surfing today’s Internet, unless your idea of Internet is Twitter, Facebook, TikTok, rinse and repeat. That is tantamount to believing the World Wide Web circa 1997 consisted solely of 50Megs.com homepages. At least branch out into GeoCities or AngelFire, for the love of God! Back to adblockers. They allow the humble reader to avoid annoying calls to action, spammy pseudo-news articles, and off-target ads. Honestly, blockers are the only way to make CNN’s homepage remotely readable.
These wonders of modern science are thwarted by recipe bloggers. See, the most pernicious aspect of those sites aren’t the constant begging for email addresses or Amazon affiliate blocks selling KitchenAid mixers. It’s all the fluff and nonsense vomited out above the actual recipe.
No one reads that garbage. It’s there to make the blogger feel like they’ve contributed something to society.
How do I know no one reads those 1000 word essays on winter nights and their “hard working hubs” and how much “the littles just looooved it” and how much coffee they need to consume daily to remain upright? Check the comments.
No comments mention the word salad, just questions on how to make the salad. Questions that could have been answered in the recipe. Or, if one requires an essay on food before learning how to make a dish, place some alternate methods there.
Not that the comments are useful. Like all comments, they exist as a window into the commenter’s soul, rarely adding value to the original post. They come in three types.
Comment Type One: Can I freeze this for later? or How long does this last in the fridge?
The answer is either “Yes, the soup freezes and reheats great” or “No, do not freeze hard boiled eggs”. The fridge question 80% of the time occurs on chicken dishes. Families will not leave leftover beef. Chicken casserole? The remains collected are seven baskets full.
Comment Type Two: I didn’t follow any of the directions and the dish tasted horrible. This is not a good recipe.
These comments are left by functional illiterates. Read the directions? No thanks, I’ll determine what temperature to cook a turkey. I don’t need your numbers. It’s a free country, if I want to replace white onions with red onions and then complain about the taste I’ll bloody well do it. Substituting nutmeg for paprika is my truth and part of my authentic self, how dare you question it!
Comment Type Three: This was great! I loved it! So good!
At least these provide some valuable feedback to the blogger, if no actual information to other readers. I’m sure it’s the positive short sentences that bloggers trumpet to agents when pitching a cookbook of mostly stolen recipes. That and social media followers.
And those book deals are important. Because I won’t spend five minutes scrolling past saccharine-coated sentences and slow loading photos to get to the actual directions, but I will shell out $25 for a cookbook made entirely of recipes sans any hubs or littles words. Such is the power of the physical book.