Coke and Pepsi are changing the way they produce the caramel coloring in their soda to avoid being forced by the State of California to label their products as containing a cancer-causing ingredient.

The Center for Science in the Public Interest, a consumer advocacy group, in February filed a petition with the Food and Drug Administration to ban the use of ammonia-sulfite caramel coloring.

A spokesman for the Food and Drug Administration said the petition is being reviewed. But he noted that a consumer would have to drink more than 1,000 cans of soda a day to reach the doses administered that have shown links to cancer in rodents.

The American Beverage Association also noted that California added the coloring to its list of carcinogens with no studies showing that it causes cancer in humans. It noted that the listing was based on a single study in lab mice and rats.

Thanks to California and CSPI, I feel safer already.

Me: I’ll have the Chelsea Grilled Chicken.

Manhattan Bagel Lady: Do you want potato salad, macaroni salad, or cole slaw?

Me: Macaroni salad.

MBL: What bagel do you want it on?

Me: Doesn’t it come on an asiago roll?

MBL: We don’t have any rolls. We’re all out.

Me: No rolls or bread at all?

MBL: No. Only bagels.

Me: Do you have focaccia bread?

MBL: Yeah, we have focatch.

Me: I’ll have it on that.

MBL: Okay. Do you want potato salad, macaroni salad, or cole slaw?

Me: Macaroni salad.

(Five minutes pass while MBL makes sandwich. I stand by counter patiently waiting. Then MBL approaches the counter.)

MBL: Did you say macaroni?

(I nod)

W. H. Auden says somewhere — I believe in one of the essays gathered in The Dyer’s Hand, which I do not happen to have at hand — that he preferred systems of irregular measurement. In other words, inches, yards, and ells to, say, the metric system.

I share that preference, principally because such irregular systems do not pretend to a precision that is in fact unattainable.
Consider the circle.

 Its circumference is arrived at by multiplying pi by the circle’s radius squared. But pi is an irrational number whose decimal representation can neither come to an end nor repeat. It can be expressed only approximately. Given that a key factor in arriving at the circumference of a circle is itself an approximation, it would seem to follow that the circumference of a circle can only be known approximately. Just one more thing we can’t quite be certain of. (Since the ancients knew this, I wonder if that is why they thought of the circle as an emblem of perfection, its ultimate unknowability being analogous to God’s.)

Pi is also a mathematical constant. It figures in a lot more formulae than the one for calculating circumferences. Since it is, fundamentally, an approximation, it follows that whatever solution arrived at by means of it can only also be an approximation. An exceedingly close approximation, of course, but an approximation nonetheless. Not precisely accurate.
I happen to think that it is precisely because they are, however slightly, imprecise that such calculations accurately reflect reality, which I happen to think cannot be precisely grasped. In fact, it is real because it cannot be precisely grasped, which is another way of saying that it is, to ever so slightly paraphrase e.e. cummings, a world of born and not a world of made, something alive and not constructed.

No living thing can be reduced to mere quantity. That is the delusion of scientism, as opposed to science. For the scientist, quantity is a means to an end. For the scientistic, it is an end in itself.

You will no doubt be surprised to learn that these cosmic lucubrations of mine are but the prelude to a discussion of some things ostensibly much humbler — soup, stew, and meatloaf.

Recently, I posted on my blog an account of my having improvised a soup, in the course of which account I remarked parenthetically that “I have long thought there is something in common between putting together a good soup or stew and arriving at an authentic, personal philosophy.” To which my friend Lee Lowe, also a soup aficionado, responded: “… soup is usually tasty, and a great way to get kids and now grandkids to eat vegetables. But I can’t say it’s helped me to arrive at an authentic personal philosophy. Sadly.”

So I think I should explain what I meant.

When I was in my 20s, I had some time on my hands and thought I would figure out exactly what it was that I was sure of, to serve as the basis for my procession through life. I know now that this not only sounds ridiculous, but was ridiculous. But in those days, having just put college behind me, I was more enthralled with pure reason than I have been for a long time.
I got nowhere with my project, because every time I tried to decide what I was sure about doubts cropped up. The desire for precision is a correlate of the desire for certainty and both are really cravings, not simply desires, and both, I think, derive from lacking a sense of nuance. It’s sort of like wanting to be hip.

Wanting to be hip is a powerful indication that hip is what you are not. The authentically hip are never deliberately so. They’re just people who have a pretty good sense of what’s going on, have their own idiosyncratic take on it and go with it. There are, at any given time, a fair number of such people around and, since they all have a sense of the same thing — what’s going on — their individual takes on things tend to have a lot in common. So they get noticed. And the next thing you know, there are, say, a bunch of young women sporting long hair and black turtlenecks sipping espresso in coffeehouses, as was the case in the ’50s. I remember them well — if only because I lived with one for nigh on 20 years.

The next thing after that, of course, is a story about them in the Timesstyle section, by which time the style is becoming passé (one reason why people who rely on the Timesto find out what’s going on tend to be so unhip).
The thing about soup and stews and meatloaf is that they turn out best when the cook doesn’t rely on recipes and measuring cups and spoons Recipes are a fine source of ideas. I read them all the time. As for measuring, when I cook a soup or a stew, I use a glass I have that is shaped like a chalice, and I never quite fill it up. I pour an amount that looks good. I also eyeball the amount of herbs I add. I pour into the palm of my hand an amount of salt that looks about right. I gauge the texture by stirring (or, in the case of meatloaf or meatballs, from mixing the ingredients by hand). I always make sure to put in less of an ingredient than may be needed, because I can always add more. But I can’t subtract if I’ve put in too much.

These are all culinary commonplaces, and any experienced cook, reading the preceding paragraph, will probably say to himself, “Wow, no kidding?”
So what does any of this have to do with philosophy, authentic or otherwise?
Well, philosophy has come to be thought of primarily as an intellectual undertaking, an arrival at an understanding of things by rational means alone. It’s like trying to cook something by strict attention to a recipe and careful measurement of ingredients. Both techniques are too abstract.
The most important detail in what I just said about cooking a soup or stew is that bit about tasting as you go along. In cooking, as in life, it’s experience that counts. It also counts in philosophy. Experience is the only way you get a feel for things, which is what tends to be lacking in a purely intellectual understanding of them.

I almost always find myself thinking philosophical thoughts when I cook, and they tend to be among the most tolerant and humane thoughts that I have. Cooking may not make me wise, but it does give me some feeling of what it might be like to be wise, to have a sense, not of the measurement of things, but of their many and varied nuances.

And that, to conclude, is why I think philosophy majors would do well to punctuate their courses in logic by endeavoring to turn out a flavorful meatloaf or minestrone.

You know what frightens me a little about us? — people, I mean. We are really eager to accept things the way they are, even if they are way worse than the way they were pretty derned recently. 

Oh, sure, we’ll moan about “how it used to be,” but, for the sake of ease, something in our heads makes us want to accept stuff, “as is.” Things go more smoothly that way, I guess. 

Or maybe we do this because we feel like we simply can’t stand up effectively against things like plummeting standards. One of the most popular American phrases right now (annoying as I might find it [imagine the whole of the American populace not adjusting its phraseology just to please me]) is: “It is what it is.” Usually, this is a resignation: It ain’t changing. 

(Now that I’m on the subject of annoying phrases, would people PLEASE stop saying “I’m so over it” when they are still mad? Hmm? “I’m so over it” — annoying even in its proper use, by the way — is supposed to mean you are finished with it — done being angry; finished giving the situation your time and energy. If you drive your fist through a plate glass window while bellowing, “I’m so over it,” not only are you putting yourself in grave mortal danger — as well as nearly eliminating your future shot at become a concert pianist — but you are really sort of proving that you are not, in fact, “over” anything.) 

Anyway, I mention this issue of “dropping standards” because, two nights ago, Karen (my wife) and I were in a fast food restaurant. I was exceedingly grumpy because we were stopping to eat on our way to look for a new car (a process I would gladly replace with sledding naked, without a sled, down a hill made entirely of stucco). 

We walked in to find a long line leading up to one register and we were faced with the vexing decision: Does one walk up to the register with only one customer at it, or, does one wait until one is the next cow in line and then proceed to the indicated chute? I always felt that the former was the polite thing to do; yet, that there is certainly wiggle room in there for alternate reasoning: If the people in front of you were asinine enough not to move to the vacant registers on their own, do you owe them your courtesy? (Thoughts like these are the ones that contributed to my current addiction to green tea and cookies. Yes, this is a cry for help.) 

After a bit of a wait (my own wait undertaken while standing hunch-shouldered and under the weight of knitted brows, which must have been, in my unbelievably grim mood, so exaggeratedly knitted that any nearby, french-fry munching anthropologist might have expected he’d just made that elusive discovery he and his colleagues had sought for so many years) we were the lucky ones and we ordered: Sandwiches, fries, drinks. Standard. 

“Your name?” she asked. 

“CKharriesn,” we said. 

“Chris,” I said, a hand gently laid on the arm of my charming wife, as I disentangled our names with — if I might point this out — very manly take-chargeness. “But . . .” 

“Where do we wait?” Karen asked, smiling a pretty smile. 

“Over there’s fine,” the girl said, smiling a pretty smile.

 ”But . . .” I said, grimacing the lost grimace of proto-humanity. 

We waited. Karen sat at a booth. About a minute later, I had gotten the food and sat down.

 ”That was fast,” Karen chirped pleasantly. 

“Goes to show you,” I said, hunching over my meal, rooting around for my stone knife among the paper napkins. 

“What?” she asked, surgically dismantling her sandwich, the way she always does, before putting it back together properly . 

“Huh?” I grunted. 

“Goes to show you what?” 

“Goes to show you,” I said, “what we’re willing to accept. Now we’ve moved-on to being pleased that we didn’t have to wait too long for our fast food. Remember when you would order and they would just hand it to you and you would just sit and eat? Bing-bang-boom?” 

She snorted a quick laugh. “This is going to be a blog post, isn’t it.” 

“More than likely,” I replied, biting into a pretty good spicy chicken sandwich that (it occurred to me) in twenty years, I would probably be contentedly cooking for myself in the same restaurant, just before thanking the manager for the privilege of paying him, exorbitantly, for the use of his ovens and fryers. 

(Some other time, I will tell you about the little fellow with wire-framed glasses and a pith helmet who tapped me on the shoulder with tears of joy in his eyes and a notebook in hand.)

10. While slicing the pumpkin pie, you cut your finger and gravy came out

9. Your belly button, formerly an innie, is now an outie

8. People kept saying, “Happy Thanksgiving, Gov. Christie!”

7. NASA is considering one more mission to photograph the other side of you

6. A policeman came up to you and ordered you to disperse

5. You just woke up from your tryptophan coma

4. You’ve gotten inquiries from the Guinness World Records people

3. Old Country Buffet just issued a lifetime ban

2. Your relatives took a picture of you in your Pilgrim outfit, and it’s still printing

1. You just caught the flesh eating bacteria, and were given 67 years to live
 

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.

The McRib is a miracle sandwich. It’s something delicious that is made from a bunch of seemingly non-delicious ingredients. This apparently bothers some people.

Some people are just never satisfied.

10. Good N’ Grunty

9. Stutterfinger

8. Gecko Wafers

7. Boston Baked Limabeans

6. N&Ns

5. Soy Milky Way

4. Bengali Rancher

3. Baby Ruth Buzzi

2. Cadbury Creme Eggs and Ham

1. Dixie Chicks Pixy Stix
 

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.

A couple of my pals live in Vietnam. I want to visit them sometime soon, and one of the things I wish to see is the slaughter of live cobras at local restaurants. It happens, apparently. The Web site Matador Nights has the skinny:

“Munching on cobra parts is likely an adaptation of the Chinese medical belief that ingesting an animal will endow the eater with its positive attributes. This is why tiger penises are so expensive nowadays…

“…The ritual is primarily a northern Vietnamese thing and tends to be far more elaborate around Hanoi. Snake restaurants rarely advertise to foreigners, but ask any tour guide in the Old Quarter and they’ll be able to point you in the right direction.

“…your reward is a multi-course meal made from the remains of your victim. You’ll feast on snake soup, snake spring rolls, barbecued snake and just about any other culinary option the chef can dream up.

“And yeah, it tastes a little like chicken.”

I’m game.

The summer is (sadly) coming to an end and sweet summer corn will soon be a thing of the past. Here is one of my favorite corn recipes….

CRAB AND CORN CAKES WITH CHIPOTLE REMOULADE

* ¼ cup mayonnaise

* 1 large egg

* 1 teaspoon hot sauce

* 1 pound jumbo lump crab

* 3/4 cup bread crumbs

* ½ cup sweet summer corn kernels

* 1/3 cup finely diced red bell pepper

* 1/4 cup finely chopped cilantro

* 2 tablespoons olive oil

* 2 tablespoons butter

* Chipotle Remoulade to garnish your cakes with, optional

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

In a bowl, whisk together the mayo, egg and hot sauce. Add the crab, bread crumbs, corn, pepper, and cilantro. Mix well, breaking up some of the lumps of crabmeat. Cover and refrigerate for 1 hour.

Divide the crab mixture into approximately 8 equal portions, then form each portion into a cake (refer to picture), transferring the cakes as formed to a flat baking sheet.

In a large, heavy nonstick skillet (work in batches so you don’t crowd the pan), warm some of the olive oil and butter over medium heat. With a spatula, carefully slide the crab cakes into the skillet. Cover and cook until golden brown and crisp, about 5 minutes. Carefully turn the cakes, cover the skillet and cook until golden brown, crisp and just cooked through while remaining moist, 4 to 5 minutes. Drain on paper towels. Put in oven another 5 minutes to cook throughout.

Serve some of the Remoulade on top of, underneath, or beside the cakes.

CHIPOTLE REMOULADE:

* 1 cup mayonnaise

* 4 teaspoons finely chopped chives

* 1 tablespoon minced chipotle chiles in adobo

* 2 teaspoons lime juice

* 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

In a bowl, stir together the mayo, scallion, chipotles, lime, and mustard. Keep in fridge for up to 3 days.

10. “I knew it was a bad idea to leave the fireworks in the trunk on a day this hot!”

9. “That’s not mayonnaise; you’re standing under a tree.”

8. “I think Grandma lost her dentures in the coleslaw again.”

7. “I told Phil a thousand times: either lose some weight or don’t stand directly over the septic tank.”

6. “Weird Uncle Frank wants to play his DVD that certainly sounds patriotic; it’s called The British Are Coming! The British Are Coming!”

5. “Why does my hot dog have an engagement ring on it?”

4. “Which is the burger and which is the charcoal?”

3. “I hope nobody minds, but today’s barbecue is completely vegan.”

2. “To give it that little something extra, I put lighter fluid in the punch.”

1. “It’s deer meat! Couldn’t have been in the road more than a day or two.”

Bob Sullivan’s Top Ten Everything appears every Monday.