I trusted them, and I should have known better. I’m sure that you, Reader, are chuckling mirthlessly into your hot cocoa, garnished as it is with unsubmerged whole vanilla bean per Ina Garten’s cynical directives. Well, damn you straight to Hell, too.
You, whose grilled green mango salad features a clever use of chioggia beets, didn’t fall for it, I imagine. You weren’t sucked into the grotesque delusion perpetrated by Epicurious upon the casually uncritical dilettante. Damn you, Epicurious! And damn you, smug and sophisticated Reader, dismissing this recipe for the transparently petit bourgeois patty-cake that it is!
Oh, the trappings were there: cast-iron skillet, San Marzano tomatoes, generous amounts of olive oil. Lemon zest, for God’s sake! Granted, these were my own embellishments. Damn me! And damn the scales on my eyes! If the recipe had called for caper berries preserved in salt, I’d have bought an entirely new induction range!
The tip-off, wily Epicurious, was that this was #11 in your top recipes of the year. Just outside the top ten? You and I both know that this means it ought to be the most vainglorious dish I can make without having to fucking sous vide anything. This is social engineering! Sous vide isn’t even a verb–it’s like telling someone to “Tuscan” something, which probably just means to add fucking farro.
I suppose I should be grateful to you, Epicurious, for finally exposing me for what I am: a feckless worshiper of the God of Social Credit. But damn you straight to Hell anyway, you gaggle of fiends–into what dark corner of your algorithms was my data drawn and slaughtered by formulas birthed only by scorn? Who called on you to expose the truth of our age, that the only moral acts are to die childless and to eliminate corn in our diets?
O, Speedy Skillet Ravioli Lasagna! Damn you straight to Hell. And if anyone would like to join it there, I suggest investing in a deep-sided cast-iron pan and finding some scamorza, which has a fuller fermentation profile than mozzarella.