Why does football cause such dietary calamity?
I know there are seasonal foods. I know there are traditional foods. I know there are ritual foods.
But football food? Disaster.
I have an odd habit of thumbing through the slick coupon inserts in the Sunday paper. Less and less will I find anything I want to buy (though some dishwasher soap had me clipping today). However, I look forward to my weekly thumb-through as a sort of culinary anthropology. I say to myself, when flipping quickly past startling "recipes" that call for such atrocities as a can of Manwich, "People really eat this? Isn't that cannibalism?"
It's a fun pastime, though. You can tell what time of the year it is from the coupons. We just got through the green-bean/fried-onion casserole season. And now we're in the preposterous "football diet" portion of our year. Chili. Chicken wings. Quesadillas.
And 7-Layer Dip!
I'm not about to go to the trouble of Googling this perversion, but as far as I know, it's only been on the edible landscape for the past decade or so. Who comes up with this stuff?
I don't know what the official seven layers are, but one of them is refried beans, and the dish is served bone cold. No thanks. Cold beans? Shudder.
However. (Yes, of course there's a however.) Since there are two playoff games on the tube today, and since certain food items are often found (as emergency rations, you understand) in my pantry, I decided to give Cranky a big plate of seven layers.
I nuked it briefly, so that it wasn't totally disgusting.
Heck, I ate a little of it myself, and I didn't die.
I will not tell you how to make it, but I will tell you what the seven layers were: refried beans, crumbled feta cheese, sour cream, totally out-of-season tomato salsa, chopped canned olives, avocado slices and minced cilantro. Served with home-baked corn chips made from commercial tortillas.
It made us happy.