I have a love-hate relationship with Cheetos. I love them because they are salty, crunchy, greasy, cheesy tasting, and glow-in-the-dark orange. I hate them because, for me, they are a symbol of a decaying society. They are totally synthetic, unnatural, packaged in petroleum-based cellophane, and consumed in large quantities in front of large-screen televisions by large-bellied couch potatoes whilst consuming large quantities of lite beer. And, they turn your fingers orange. If I ever see Cheestos crushed into the plush carpet lying between a large sofa and a large screen television, I may cry.
I haven't eaten Cheetos in a while. Believe me, the temptation to run out, right now, for a 12-oz bag is almost unbearable. About a decade ago, when I was weaker and gave into Cheetos temptation, I would eat them at work. Since I handled a good deal of paper, I developed a novel technique to avoid orange fingerprints on my papers. I brought a pair of tweezers from home. I poured the Cheetos in a paper bowl and ate them, one by one, gripping each odd-shaped morsel with the tweezers, and inserting into my mouth. No muss, no fuss, nirvana at work.
But, even then, I knew the dark secret about Cheetos: It is a totally engineered food.
You see, there are two schools of thought when it comes to food: 1. something I'll call Chef Thought, and 2. Food Science. Chef Thought is how most of us think when preparing food. We believe in getting the freshest ingredients, preferably from a farmer's market, frommagerie, butcher, or fish monger. We may use natural spices, butter, tomato sauces, olive oils, and so on. We will cook our food over an open flame, in an oven, or even on a spit. At the meal, everything smells wonderful. Our forks and knives cut into perfectly-cooked textures. And, the taste is memorable. What could be better?
The Food Scientists may think they have something better. Food Scientists aren't interested in farmers markets or butcher shops. Fresh food, or any kind of food, is off their radar screen.
I wasn't present when the idea of Cheetos was conceived. I'm sure there was a room full of Food Scientists charged with developing the Perfect Snackfood.
"Okay," said the head Food Scientist, Charlie Doolin, the creator of Cheetos and Fritos, "today we will develop the specifications for the Perfect Snack Food. When we create this delight, our company will make millions and we can all retire early. So, what should this snackfood look and taste like?"
Food Scientist 1: "It should be crunchy, people like crunchy."
Food Scientist 2: "It should be greasy, everybody I know loves greasy stuff."
Food Scientist 3: "How about cheesy tasting? Everybody loves cheese."
Food Scientist 4: "It should be fun to eat, maybe it should have a strange shape and be some crazy color."
Food Scientist 5: "Don't forget salty. It's not worth eating with lite beer if it isn't salty."
"Very good," said Charlie, "Let's create a crunchy, greasy, cheesy, salty, fun-to-eat, strangely-shaped, crazy-colored snackfood. Get to work."
Now, Food Scientists don't think like Chefs. So, when they think "crunchy," they don't mean crunchy like celery or pickles or green peppers, they think "really crunchy." If all they could produce is celery crunchy, why would anybody buy Cheetos? They should just buy celery.It's got to be crunchier than celery. How do you make something crunchier than Nature? Easy, you use "crunch enhancers," like maltodextrin, a highly-processed sugar derivative. So, let's throw some of that in our Perfect Snackfood.
How do you make something greasy? Easy, you add grease, or in this case, a mixture of "vegetable oils" and partially-hydrogenated soybean oil. Why do you need all these oils? Because the oil composition works to enhance that greasy "mouthfeel" of Cheetos. Too many healthy polyunsaturated oils are more fluid and detract from the crunch. Adding that partially-hydrogenated soybean oil congeals the grease for just the right mouthfeel. And, when I see "partially-hydrogenated," I read trans-fatty acids. But, hey, this is Food Science!
Cheesy, how do you make something cheesy? Simple, just add cheese, right? Wrong! Cheese just doesn't taste cheesy enough. Any Food Scientist worth his weight in fool's gold knows you have to add flavors to enhance the cheesy flavor. Mother Nature was sleeping on the job when she created cheese, not cheesy enough. So, let's add some dimethyl sufide. You can't believe this stuff, it's really cheesy tasting! And, it's volatile, meaning it evaporates quickly. So, when you open that bag, you get a blast of that yummy dimethyl sulfide. I'm salivating here.
And, while we are at it, let's add some preservatives like disodium phosphate and citric acid. And, if you still don't think there's enough flavor, let's throw in some monosodium glutamate. You know what that is, MSG. That's the stuff Chinese restaurants don't add to their food anymore. They let their suppliers add it.
Our good friends, the Food Scientists, then heat the whole mess under pressure, and extrude it into a blast of hot air, and voila, you have Cheetos! Make room at the table for me!
Let's catch up with those Chefs I mentioned at the beginning. You know, those guys who like farmer's markets? Do you think they have maltodextrin, or dimethyl sulfide, or disodium phosphate in their pantry? I think not. I'll bet they don't even know what dimethyl sulfide is for! Ask them about dimethyl sulfide, they will look at you like you came out of a Cheetos factory!
I still have a love-hate relationship with Cheetos. I know they won't love me back, and, if I eat enough of them, they might hate me back with some cheesy form of cardiovascular disease peculiar to Cheetos eaters. So, I can resist the urge to run out and get a bag. Maybe there's some celery in the refrigerator.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Vulcanized, but Not a Vulcan
Arthur
Between one and two decades ago, I met Arthur. I forgot his last name, I forgot his wife's name, I forgot his two daughters' names, I might remember where they lived: Colonia, NJ. I probably wouldn't have given Arthur, or his wife, or his daughters the time of day, or noticed them on the street, except that Arthur's daughters and my sons were in the same play groups.
Arthur looked like a character out of an Arthur Miller play. He was big and kind of dumpy. He was almost bald and wore glasses with big, thick lenses, and fat black frames. He smiled with these plastic lips that seemed infinitely stretchable. His laugh was forced. He seemed vaguely angry at the world.
His wife was a good deal less vague about her anger towards him. And, the girls fought a lot. Maybe his wife's name was Dottie. She was not a happy lady. She didn't see the glass as half-full, or even half-empty. She would wonder why you need a freakin' glass anyway, can't you just drink it out of the bottle?
Arthur died of cancer.
Getting Cancer
I don't know what type of cancer Arthur had, or what caused it. Of course, I have my theory. I think Arthur's job killed him. Let me tell you about Arthur's job.
Most of us really don't think about much about the stuff around us. Sitting at my desk, I am surrounded by paper clips, pencils, staplers, various pens, envelopes, PostIt Note pads, and such. I never gave much thought about who made them, how they are made, or where they come from.
Did you ever wonder where pencils come from? Did you ever wonder how they get the lead inside that hexagon of wood? Have you looked at that nice orange eraser tip and wondered how it got there? Well, I can answer the last question: Arthur's job was to make those eraser tips you see on those yellow, wooden pencils.
Arthur once told me about his job. He was in charge of a huge vat. They imported the sap from rubber trees growing in South America. This rubber sap was gooey, opaque, and not the stuff you would imagine sitting on top of your pencil. However, when you add elemental sulfur to the mix and heat it up under highly-controlled conditions, you get rubber eraser.
The hot, thick eraser goo gets extruded into long cords of eraser material, cut into pieces, and then affixed on your pencil for your erasing, chewing, biting, and any other things you can imagine using an eraser for.
The process of adding sulfur to rubber sap is called Vulcanization. This is a term I believe to be a of an exaggeration. Vulcan refers to hell. We all know the expression: Fire and brimstone; well, brimstone is sulfur. Sulfur-containing molecules can smell pretty bad. Swamp gas is hydrogen sulfide. That natural gas smell is from sulfur.
When you are continually exposed to sulfur-containing odors, the organics from the rubber sap, and whatever nasty chemical by-products of Vulcanization, you are at risk for cancer. That's why I think Arthus's job was the cause of his death.
When Arthur was Alive
I frequently thought about Arthur and his job before I learned he had cancer. On the one hand, I didn't think I could ever devote my life making eraser tips for pencils. It just seemed too odd, strange, and inconsequential. On the other hand, I thought about all those mistakes, errors, omissions, and misspellings deleted by Arthur's handiwork with just a couple swipes of his eraser tips. From how many misunderstandings, miscommunications, and mistakes has Arthur's eraser saved us?
Alas, today, Arthur's eraser has been replaced by the backspace and delete keys. Arthur died at a time when computers were in their infancy, when serious writers, students, and holders of clipboards had armies of erasers at the ready. They had those big gum erasers for large-scale erasures, erasers instead of lead in things that looked like pencils for precise, surgical erasures Half the earth's population kept sharpened, eraser-tipped pencils behind the ear, in their pockets, or hanging from a string attached to those clipboards. Everywhere you looked, there was one of Arthur's creations. Most of the pencils are gone today. Arthur is gone today.
Maybe it's just as well.
Between one and two decades ago, I met Arthur. I forgot his last name, I forgot his wife's name, I forgot his two daughters' names, I might remember where they lived: Colonia, NJ. I probably wouldn't have given Arthur, or his wife, or his daughters the time of day, or noticed them on the street, except that Arthur's daughters and my sons were in the same play groups.
Arthur looked like a character out of an Arthur Miller play. He was big and kind of dumpy. He was almost bald and wore glasses with big, thick lenses, and fat black frames. He smiled with these plastic lips that seemed infinitely stretchable. His laugh was forced. He seemed vaguely angry at the world.
His wife was a good deal less vague about her anger towards him. And, the girls fought a lot. Maybe his wife's name was Dottie. She was not a happy lady. She didn't see the glass as half-full, or even half-empty. She would wonder why you need a freakin' glass anyway, can't you just drink it out of the bottle?
Arthur died of cancer.
Getting Cancer
I don't know what type of cancer Arthur had, or what caused it. Of course, I have my theory. I think Arthur's job killed him. Let me tell you about Arthur's job.
Most of us really don't think about much about the stuff around us. Sitting at my desk, I am surrounded by paper clips, pencils, staplers, various pens, envelopes, PostIt Note pads, and such. I never gave much thought about who made them, how they are made, or where they come from.
Did you ever wonder where pencils come from? Did you ever wonder how they get the lead inside that hexagon of wood? Have you looked at that nice orange eraser tip and wondered how it got there? Well, I can answer the last question: Arthur's job was to make those eraser tips you see on those yellow, wooden pencils.
Arthur once told me about his job. He was in charge of a huge vat. They imported the sap from rubber trees growing in South America. This rubber sap was gooey, opaque, and not the stuff you would imagine sitting on top of your pencil. However, when you add elemental sulfur to the mix and heat it up under highly-controlled conditions, you get rubber eraser.
The hot, thick eraser goo gets extruded into long cords of eraser material, cut into pieces, and then affixed on your pencil for your erasing, chewing, biting, and any other things you can imagine using an eraser for.
The process of adding sulfur to rubber sap is called Vulcanization. This is a term I believe to be a of an exaggeration. Vulcan refers to hell. We all know the expression: Fire and brimstone; well, brimstone is sulfur. Sulfur-containing molecules can smell pretty bad. Swamp gas is hydrogen sulfide. That natural gas smell is from sulfur.
When you are continually exposed to sulfur-containing odors, the organics from the rubber sap, and whatever nasty chemical by-products of Vulcanization, you are at risk for cancer. That's why I think Arthus's job was the cause of his death.
When Arthur was Alive
I frequently thought about Arthur and his job before I learned he had cancer. On the one hand, I didn't think I could ever devote my life making eraser tips for pencils. It just seemed too odd, strange, and inconsequential. On the other hand, I thought about all those mistakes, errors, omissions, and misspellings deleted by Arthur's handiwork with just a couple swipes of his eraser tips. From how many misunderstandings, miscommunications, and mistakes has Arthur's eraser saved us?
Alas, today, Arthur's eraser has been replaced by the backspace and delete keys. Arthur died at a time when computers were in their infancy, when serious writers, students, and holders of clipboards had armies of erasers at the ready. They had those big gum erasers for large-scale erasures, erasers instead of lead in things that looked like pencils for precise, surgical erasures Half the earth's population kept sharpened, eraser-tipped pencils behind the ear, in their pockets, or hanging from a string attached to those clipboards. Everywhere you looked, there was one of Arthur's creations. Most of the pencils are gone today. Arthur is gone today.
Maybe it's just as well.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Mold and Mildew Remover
The Growing Mildew Line
My bride and I just moved into our condo. It's beautiful, recent construction, lots of space, decent view, and in a quiet neighborhood. After a few months, I started noticing a tiny spot in the caulk around the bathtub. It was a tiny black spot, I rubbed it with my finger, it wasn't going away. Much like an odd-shaped mole on my shoulder, I made a mental note to keep an eye on it, to see if it changed much.
Well, I was sure glad it wasn't a mole on my shoulder, because that black spot started to grow. It followed the line of caulk, darkening it. I could almost track its daily progress. Each night when I stepped into the bathtub, my eyes went to that ominous, growing spot. My mind started playing tricks on me. I started dreaming of slime-filled bathtubs, all because that itty-bitty black spot grew into a hairy carnivorous mass. It was time to nip this bit of crawling slime in the bud.
Who Ya Gonna Call? SpotBusters
So, I raided that cabinet. You know, THAT cabinet. Everybody's got one. It's where you put the nastiest chemicals you can buy. There might be spray bottles with advertising claiming that the liquid inside will clean dirty collars, restore belts to their original luster, stop roaches in their tracks, and thin certain types of paint. It's got a bad smell, and the last thing you'd want to do is put your hand in there. So, I put on my thick rubber gloves. You know those gloves. You have to stretch them when you shove your hand inside, and when it's in there, you let go of the cuff and the rubber snaps back with that thick, rubbery sound that strikes fear in the hearts of patients unfortunate enough to find themselves alone with their proctologist.
Ah! Here's some bleach tile cleaner. I took that bottle out and sprayed some on that spot, and waited a day. The spot grew. It was like I sprayed Miracle Grow for ugly black spots on your bathtub grout. Next, Scrubbing Bubbles. The Bubbles lost. Toilet cleaner? Nope. Rubbing alcohol? The black spot just smiled and kept on growing. Gasoline? Now my bathtub smell like a rest stop with black spots.
It's a dark day when you make the decision to supply the dreaded cabinet with yet another bottle of liquid death. I went to the grocery store and walked down the aisle labeled "Household Cleaners." I'm thinking: "Mold, mildew....mildew, mold." Suddenly, there they were. Mold and Mildew Killers.
You know, there are not many places where seeing the word "Killer" brings that warm and fuzzy feeling. The big exceptions are in that Household Cleaners aisle. Death to mold. Kill the mildew. Die, germs, die. Murders 99% of all viruses. Just thinking of micro-organism genocide helps me sleep well at night.
So, I picked up the Tilex version of Mold and Mildew Killers. I hefted the bottle, good feel. I shook it and heard the microbial angel of death sloshing around in there. I put my hand around the bottles neck, like I was about to strangle something, and gingerly tried the trigger. I felt like Clint: OK, you bugs, go ahead, make my day! It felt gooood! Watch out, mold and mildew, the Sheriff's back in town.
It Was a Massacre!!
I pulled the Mold and Mildew killer out of the grocery bag and I strutted to the bathroom. I imagined myself, boll-legged, cowboy hat, six-guns on my hip, and spurs that jingle jangle jingle. I took off the safety on the spray bottle, directed the business end at the beginning of that mold and mildew line, where all the trouble started and gently squeezed the trigger. A white spray shot out of the bottle and hit its target. I squeezed again, and another breeze of death-mist found its way to my prey. Again, I squeezed, and then again. I lost control, shooting, just shooting, and the black spot got wetter and wetter. Finally, I heard a voice in my head, "Whoa, Tex! I think you got him!"
I stopped pulling the trigger, my hand hurt from the exertion, beads of sweat dripped down my forehead, my teeth unclenched, and the pounding of my heart subsided. The red haze dissipated from my field of vision and I saw the aftermath. The line of black was still there! It was still there! For the first time I felt despair. I looked at the bottle for comfort, and that is what I found: "Directions: Spray area. Wait 12 hours. Rinse."
With a deep sigh, I put the safety back on and holstered the Tilex. The killing had begun. If I listened I felt I could hear the death cries of those moldy, mildew buggers, choking on their last crumb of caulk. It was only a matter of time. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. A day on the battlefield is exhausting.
Tomorrow is Another Day
The sun beamed into the bedroom. A new day dawned. The mayhem of the previous day seemed a distant memory. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stumbled down the hallway to the battlefield. I could make out only shadows as I peered into the dark room. As I powered on the dimmer switch the bathtub lit up. It was white! There was not a speck of black to be seen. The enemy has been vanquished.
Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe they didn't deserve to die. We won the battle, Tilex and me, but, the victory is bittersweet. I guess that's the price for having a clean bathtub. You have to serve mold and mildew that eviction notice....or else!
Now, I'm focused on the future. Mold and mildew will be around long after the last human motors around on Mother Earth. But, for my little piece of heaven, mold and mildew will never again set foot. Not while Tilex is on my side.
My bride and I just moved into our condo. It's beautiful, recent construction, lots of space, decent view, and in a quiet neighborhood. After a few months, I started noticing a tiny spot in the caulk around the bathtub. It was a tiny black spot, I rubbed it with my finger, it wasn't going away. Much like an odd-shaped mole on my shoulder, I made a mental note to keep an eye on it, to see if it changed much.
Well, I was sure glad it wasn't a mole on my shoulder, because that black spot started to grow. It followed the line of caulk, darkening it. I could almost track its daily progress. Each night when I stepped into the bathtub, my eyes went to that ominous, growing spot. My mind started playing tricks on me. I started dreaming of slime-filled bathtubs, all because that itty-bitty black spot grew into a hairy carnivorous mass. It was time to nip this bit of crawling slime in the bud.
Who Ya Gonna Call? SpotBusters
So, I raided that cabinet. You know, THAT cabinet. Everybody's got one. It's where you put the nastiest chemicals you can buy. There might be spray bottles with advertising claiming that the liquid inside will clean dirty collars, restore belts to their original luster, stop roaches in their tracks, and thin certain types of paint. It's got a bad smell, and the last thing you'd want to do is put your hand in there. So, I put on my thick rubber gloves. You know those gloves. You have to stretch them when you shove your hand inside, and when it's in there, you let go of the cuff and the rubber snaps back with that thick, rubbery sound that strikes fear in the hearts of patients unfortunate enough to find themselves alone with their proctologist.
Ah! Here's some bleach tile cleaner. I took that bottle out and sprayed some on that spot, and waited a day. The spot grew. It was like I sprayed Miracle Grow for ugly black spots on your bathtub grout. Next, Scrubbing Bubbles. The Bubbles lost. Toilet cleaner? Nope. Rubbing alcohol? The black spot just smiled and kept on growing. Gasoline? Now my bathtub smell like a rest stop with black spots.
It's a dark day when you make the decision to supply the dreaded cabinet with yet another bottle of liquid death. I went to the grocery store and walked down the aisle labeled "Household Cleaners." I'm thinking: "Mold, mildew....mildew, mold." Suddenly, there they were. Mold and Mildew Killers.
You know, there are not many places where seeing the word "Killer" brings that warm and fuzzy feeling. The big exceptions are in that Household Cleaners aisle. Death to mold. Kill the mildew. Die, germs, die. Murders 99% of all viruses. Just thinking of micro-organism genocide helps me sleep well at night.
So, I picked up the Tilex version of Mold and Mildew Killers. I hefted the bottle, good feel. I shook it and heard the microbial angel of death sloshing around in there. I put my hand around the bottles neck, like I was about to strangle something, and gingerly tried the trigger. I felt like Clint: OK, you bugs, go ahead, make my day! It felt gooood! Watch out, mold and mildew, the Sheriff's back in town.
It Was a Massacre!!
I pulled the Mold and Mildew killer out of the grocery bag and I strutted to the bathroom. I imagined myself, boll-legged, cowboy hat, six-guns on my hip, and spurs that jingle jangle jingle. I took off the safety on the spray bottle, directed the business end at the beginning of that mold and mildew line, where all the trouble started and gently squeezed the trigger. A white spray shot out of the bottle and hit its target. I squeezed again, and another breeze of death-mist found its way to my prey. Again, I squeezed, and then again. I lost control, shooting, just shooting, and the black spot got wetter and wetter. Finally, I heard a voice in my head, "Whoa, Tex! I think you got him!"
I stopped pulling the trigger, my hand hurt from the exertion, beads of sweat dripped down my forehead, my teeth unclenched, and the pounding of my heart subsided. The red haze dissipated from my field of vision and I saw the aftermath. The line of black was still there! It was still there! For the first time I felt despair. I looked at the bottle for comfort, and that is what I found: "Directions: Spray area. Wait 12 hours. Rinse."
With a deep sigh, I put the safety back on and holstered the Tilex. The killing had begun. If I listened I felt I could hear the death cries of those moldy, mildew buggers, choking on their last crumb of caulk. It was only a matter of time. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. A day on the battlefield is exhausting.
Tomorrow is Another Day
The sun beamed into the bedroom. A new day dawned. The mayhem of the previous day seemed a distant memory. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stumbled down the hallway to the battlefield. I could make out only shadows as I peered into the dark room. As I powered on the dimmer switch the bathtub lit up. It was white! There was not a speck of black to be seen. The enemy has been vanquished.
Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe they didn't deserve to die. We won the battle, Tilex and me, but, the victory is bittersweet. I guess that's the price for having a clean bathtub. You have to serve mold and mildew that eviction notice....or else!
Now, I'm focused on the future. Mold and mildew will be around long after the last human motors around on Mother Earth. But, for my little piece of heaven, mold and mildew will never again set foot. Not while Tilex is on my side.
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