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(Anyone who makes an I-scream-you-scream joke gets one in the face)

It’s free cone day from noon ’till 8 p.m. at Ben and Jerry’s. FREE ICE CREAM! Although I still feel ire at the two bearded Vermonters for moving in RIGHT NEXT TO a local ice cream shop, I do like free stuff.

And, frankly, my personal campaign to support the little guy has run aground with Stucchi’s, which is really, really dirty. Somehow I don’t think Ben and Jerry’s would’ve made it next to Kilwin’s or Washtenaw Dairy.


Tickets went on sale today for Flight of the Conchords at the Michigan Theater.

(Another swearing warning, but this is my FAVORITE song)

There is nothing to say beyond this simple fact: I actually got down on my knees to ask the entertainment editor if I could cover this concert.

You can read the details on the A2 News entertainment blog HERE

A few weeks ago, I stopped in at the new Plum Market to buy some sandwich stuff. At the meat counter, I ordered a quarter pound of thinly sliced rare roast beef. This is my mom’s favorite, so I’ve ordered it in a wide variety of delis and grocery stores over the years.

The young lady behind the counter held up the meat so that I could see it, and it only took an instant for me to register the look that I saw in this girl’s eyes: The look of too much food knowledge.

“Just so you know,” she started, and then went on to explain some crap to me about the grain of the meat, and what roast beef looks like when it’s thinly sliced, something something something, I don’t know because I tuned out, trying to decide if I wanted the rosemary ham, waiting for her to be done so I could get on with buying the same thing I have bought for years and never before needed a primer on.

“Umm, yeah,” I said when I sensed that she was finished. “I want it thinly sliced.”

Here’s the word that I have come up with for all of you who don’t care that your turkey was massaged daily to prevent feather clumping or that someone whispered gently into the ground where your carrots were grown:


When I told this to a friend of mine who works for Zingerman’s (and, a disclaimer here, I did work there off and on from 1995-1998), at first he was offended that I used his employer’s name. But he then admitted to having just discussed with some friends the annoying tendency in the “duhness” that people have about their food knowledge. Like, ” I can’t believe you don’t know what romesco is,” when you just learned that yesterday. Like we’re all supposed to be born knowing the difference between beef that comes from Montana and beef that comes from Japan.

As far as I’m concerned, I just want the one that tastes good and doesn’t cost $30 a pound.

I don’t care how much you know about the food, and I don’t care what your opinion is about the fact that I don’t. I appreciate the good stuff as much as the next person, and it’s what I tend to eat. But you know what? I like American cheese. It’s good on burgers and grilled cheese sandwiches. And I mean the Kraft stuff. I also like diet coke and smushy bread.

And I’m grateful that, when I go to Meijer’s, the lady at the register with the six-inch fingernails doesn’t feel like she has to inform me as to the origins of my broccoli.

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