Remember when food gloating meant having to actually throw dinner parties?

Perish the thought. There was a time when if you wanted to revel in the beauty of your breakfast, you’d have to actually take someone home the night before. Oh, the humanity. Once upon a time, if you made a really banging cup of tea and sat it down on an adorable coaster, only the other people in a ten-metre radius would ever know. Never again. Never such innocence, never such suffering again.

For now, we are living in a 24-hour upload wonderland of peas, pudding, and saveloy. The internet has surrounded us with a technicolour paradise of hot sausage and mustard. Thanks to the power of our iPhones, the modern world of Instagram is a portal to a perfect existence of cold jelly and custard.

And to save you from getting a fleshy claw from all that scrolling, here we bring you the best in this week’s food porn. Enjoy!

Mists and mellow fruitfulness can get to fuck: I miss summer. I’m not here to score enigmatic, mumblecore, thoughtful, artistic, avant-garde intrigue points season-wise. I’m here to tell you that sweaty backs, hot sex, long nights, and cold ice cream are best. Shove your jumpers: I’m here for the dairy.

The fartocalypse. Nobody ever warns you. Fancy a delicious bowl of Jerusalem artichoke soup for lunch? Then you’d better get ready to be doubled over in flatulent agony come dinner. Snacking on some dried apricots? Make sure you’re by an open window. Love beans? Hate elevators.

Lyle’s of Shoreditch appear to have found Nemo, drawn a maze of Hampton Court Palace across his back, and then held him like an axe blade. Good on them.

Isn’t it terrible when you get the shakes? Those early morning tremors that make you spill all your dry shampoo and Dowe Egberts across the table? So you can hardly read the paper for grit-covered marble?

OK, talk me through this. We’ve got eggs smashed with spinach and peppers, leftover sweet potato wedges, avocado (“zaboca” to his friends), and spicy tomatoes? That’s not a “modern Caribbean twist”—that’s the entire contents of my fridge made shiny.

As the ancient, toothless Mary Anne Sailors in Dylan Thomas’ Welsh magnum opus Under Milk Wood cries out to the morning gulls: “Praise the lord who made porridge.” Especially when it looks like a galaxy of perfect planets. Especially when it looks like this.

Either that grass is tiny or we are looking at a car-sized pair of mushrooms. I mean, this is some Alice in Wonderland shit. I’m not even sure I’m young enough to be hitting the ectomycorrhizal any more. This is weird.

Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run. Here comes the Michelin-starred chef now with his gun, gun, gun. Or you can just hang there. Play it cool. Stretch out those paws and keep looking at the floor. Your call, pal.

The Frost performs its secret ministry/unhelped by any wind, as that opium-swigging old maniac Coleridge so famously put it.

For when your stew needs a real kick. (Please help me. Please, God help me).