Welcome to We’re So Over . . . At Fork in the Road, we spend a lot of time eating, discussing, and evaluating the foods that we love. This column is dedicated to the other stuff.
Why are we evaluating the excellence of a dairy product based on the lingering indentation left by our spoons?
Sure, a decade ago it felt exotic — nay, decadent — to plunge our utensils into a mound of strained, pillowy milk, as compared to the phlegm-like, fruit-on-the-bottom disasters of so many lunchbox memories. At first, Greek yogurt felt worldly and chic. With its compact packaging and slightly sour tang, it was clear that this was the food of the gods, or at least the characters from Gossip Girl.
But then it started showing up everywhere. Salad dressings were thickened with it and other fats were omitted in favor of it. Free standing stores began to hawk granola-topped scoops and our Governor has even named New York the “yogurt capital of the world.”
But you know what really threw us over the edge? When John Stamos decided to exploit the integral beauty of his Jesse Kotsopoulos persona and praise the stuff. Oh, Uncle Jesse.
And as much as health nuts love to regale us with loads of positive nutritional information — explaining that Greek yogurt is to healthy bacteria what street-disposed mattresses are to bedbugs — we’re just not OK with calling it a wonder food.
You know what’s NOT a substitute for a plump dollop of crème fraîche? Yogurt. This Dionysian dairy fixation has got to end. Have we mentioned we also don’t enjoy our residually filmed gums? Well, we don’t.