Saltines
Humility is an underrated virtue. Sure, everybody claims to like the humble among us, and many of us loudly boast of our monk-like, self-abnegating nature, but in reality, the humble people of the world get overlooked, disregarded and kicked around. And shouldn't they? It's not as though they'll stand up for themselves. Very often, humility and low self-worth go hand-in-hand, although they needn't (and shouldn't.)
If humility had a food analogue, it wouldn't be plain bread. Bread is one of those things that constantly tries to pass itself off as humble, but is actually the subject of endless fawning profiles, biographies, Bible quotes and all manner of celebration; a recent book in which prominent chefs discuss the ideal menu for their last meal is chock-full of loafs. When you get right down to it, bread's about as humble as Jay-Z. To hell with you, bread. From a humility perspective, you're the worst. At least stuff like filet mignon and foie gras doesn't pretend.
No, if you want the essence of true edible humility, go to the local grocery store and pick up a box of saltines. Or look around in your kitchen cabinet; you probably have a half-used box back there somewhere. The crackers play second or even third fiddle in recipes that, unto themselves, can be relegated to "comfort cooking": chili, or soup, or salads.
But they're beautiful unto themselves. They're almost impossibly crispy, seasoned with enough salt to ring out, but not so much that it gets overpowering. And combined with the naturally moist interior of the human mouth, the cracker goes from being a flat, dry, perforated wafer to a bland, tumbling pile of nourishment. What food is a better friend to the nauseated? And/or drunk? Pizza and burritos pretend to be your friends but they are like Judas.
Saltines are elegantly awesome from a visual perspective as well. They are square. My favorite brand, Premium by Nabisco, has 13 tiny holes bored through each cracker; three rows of three, and two of two. How can such an odd number look so neat and even? Rotated to a diagonal, the saltine's perforations make a crosshairs. The surface is lightly and unevenly browned, a dappled field of tans, siennas and oaks playing across a whitish-flour background.
Saltines, you should stop beating yourselves up. You are beautiful.
— James Norton (jrnorton@flakmag.com)
