This Week in Food Porn: Pizza Parties and Patty Melts

I would take the stars out of a pie for you, stop the juice from falling if you asked me to, I’d do anything for you, your dish is my command. I could move a mixed grill when your hand is in my hand. Words cannot express how much lunch means to me. There must be some other way to make you see. If it takes my salt and sole you know I’d pay the price. Everything that I once ate I’d gladly sacrifice.

Oh, you to me are everything. The sweetest thing that I could drink, oh baby.

Here’s the best food porn snapped and uploaded to Instagram this week. For your enjoyment, baby …

This all looks delicious until you realise that there’s a giant fizzing aspirin dolloped into a mug of thin chicken gravy on the left hand side of the table. No wonder the watermelon has thrown itself into an SOS arrow away to safety.

If you don’t have access to some hand-foraged crustaceans and an open charcoal barbecue, why not simply throw a handful of garden snails at your nan’s two-bar electric fire and crack the double glazing open a couple of inches? (Please don’t do this. Or, if you do this, at least don’t mention my name).

Oh, I think we’ve just found a bread and butter illustration of all the reasons America is up shit creek with nothing but a Fanta-varnished paddle at the moment.

I’ll admit that this does look rather like one of the Magic Eye pictures Tom Dent hung on his bedroom wall after he’d got really into smoking purple haze and listening to a lot of Frank Zappa. Maybe if you tilt your head a little bit, a group of stallions will appear to come running out of the strawberries onto a foaming shoreline.

“Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small pizza, on which the words ‘EAT ME’ were beautifully marked in pepperoni. ‘Well, I’ll eat it,’ said Alice, ‘and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach my friend’s ridiculous straw hat; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under her cushion and give her a wedgie.’”

She’s absolutely right, of course. Being proud of your own work and saying it out loud feels awkward. Because doing so makes you an unforgivable tool and a bore of the highest, most indulgent order. Still, if you have the time and inclination to dye your porridge blue with old cabbage water, then I suppose you have to start congratulating yourself. God knows nobody else is going to.

Sometimes my longing for the sea becomes so strong it’s actually like thirst, like hunger—like the need to sleep. And, sure, holding up a handful of slippery, fish-stinking weed like the lopped off ends of a particularly wet haircut of Jar Jar Binks isn’t quite the same as swimming in the ocean under a full moon. But it’s a good start.

This looks like a dog toy. Or a Fisher Price rubber ring. Or a Cath Kidston prostate massager. Or a Hello Kitty wedding ring. Or a Royal Dalton napkin ring. Whatever it is, it does not look edible.

I see your dad’s still got the shakes then? Still, I’m glad that he can take the time after a big night to whip up some breakfast. And that mam’s spoon collection isn’t going to waste. And that he’s stopped trying to peel blueberries while listening to Steve Wright’s “Sunday Love Songs.” I do wish he’d stop eating coffee beans by the spoonful though. They don’t make his hand eye coordination any better.

If you’ve never actually Googled “cervix” well, I’ve just saved you the bother.