I broke through my hangover to clean up from last night’s party. There in the bottom of a large bowl was a single triscuit. I sat there starting at it. Poor Triscuit. All alone in the world. The party is over Triscuit, sorry, you missed it.
What does it mean to be this highly tuned and manufactured culinary expression of dullness? What is it worth – until – until you add cheese, or lox, or a thin slice of fig – then pile on goat cheese and honey and …. you see my point. You never look at a Triscuit and say “mmmm Triscuit” – you look at it as a vehicle, an enabler for some other mouth watering treat.
Now, mind you – it’s not like Triscuit doesn’t try. It’s bred itself into all sorts of new variants. You can try and make a Rye Triscuit or the overreaching Roasted Tomato and Olive Oil Triscuit. Now Triscuit is trying too hard. Hell, it even tries to get in on Christmas time with a Cranberry variety. A 1/5″ square of Cranberry wheaty meh.
It is no good by itself. Knowing this, but having pity on it, I popped the lone crisp into my mouth, washing the meh away with quasiwarm morning coffee.