Some further thoughts on food enthusiast and writer Michael Pollan (and perfume critic Chandler Burr, and the Times' Critical Shopper as well): "I mean, God, if I hear one more nouveau-gourmand or culinary life hacker repeat that fucking Pollan t-shirt slogan 'Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants,' just one more time, I swear, I'm just going to fucking kill his ass and eat him right there on the spot, I'll shoot him in the head (to avoid contaminating the bulk of the meat with bitter, acrid gunpowder) and then carefully butcher him into cookable chunks (I basically learned how to do this from reading the Tuscany section of Heat, I think) and finally roast his corpse over dry cedar chips in a large, rustic, wood-fired oven; when the skin of his belly is crispy and succulent, I will serve all his various loins and filets on a bed of aragula and radicchio and some ridiculously named hydroponic designer micro-greens that I will buy at Whole Foods; I will make a thick, dark demi-glace of his blood."