Aloha Series Koko Brown Ale from Kona Brewing Co.

Peanut butter and Nutella rangoon over ice cream for dessert.

Sincerest apologies to Nat King Cole.

The story goes that gin was invented in the mid-seventeenth century in the Netherlands by a Professor of Medicine at Leyden, and was intended originally as a medicine for kidney disorders.

And tonic water has a somewhat similar history– it’s essentially carbonated water containing quinine. During the Victorian era, the British East India company in India had some malaria troubles and started using tonic water, with its anti-malarial ingredient quinine, to treat the disease among their forces. 19th-century tonic water contained far more quinine than modern tonic, and was consequently very bitter.

And then somebody had the bright (and, as it turned out, historically significant) idea to mix the tonic with gin to make it more palatable.

And don’t forget the lime– no more scurvy.

Now of course we have nothing against a nice gin and tonic. Nothing at all. But sometimes you just want a cookie.

Gin and tonic cookies

The first batch was, as all first batches, highly experimental. A basic shortbread recipe, cut into rounds, a cream-based icing of lime juice, Bombay gin (Bombay chosen over Hendrick’s for its stronger juniper flavor), and tonic water, and candied lime slices to top.

The finished product.

The verdict? Shortbread was a bad choice– a shortbread cookie just doesn’t have much flavor, and because the flavor of the icing is also very subtly lime-y and gin-y, the end product turns out a bit on the tasteless side. And the other big problem is a fairly common one in most circles: simply not enough gin.

Also, though these beauties steeped in simple syrup for well over forty minutes, they were still much to chewy to be served on top of such a buttery, delicate cookie, even if they did lend the most prominent flavor to the whole thing:

Onward and upward– attempt two to come soon.

The Smoking Gun from PolyScience (which also produced the fascinating AntiGriddle, a cooktop that instantly freezes purees and sauces) is a cold-smoker that looks like a futuristic weapon but works like just about the simplest tool you can think of– it’s essentially a pipe bowl with a fan. You put a little bit of combustible material in the basket sunk into the top, switch on the fan, light the material with a match, and you’ve got smoke cool enough to impart a nice subtle flavor to foods without cooking or damaging them. Just let the food sit in the smoke for a few minutes and you’re done.

Now don’t get me wrong– it’s simple, yes, and a more resourceful foodie than I could probably make something pretty similar at home– but its beauty is really in that simplicity. You don’t have to be a chef to use this thing, and the opportunities for experimentation are endless.

Let me explain.

Cold smoke means you can smoke things you normally couldn’t. Put a stick of butter in a traditional smoker, and what do you get? Melted butter. A nice piece of orange roughy? Black roughy. But cold smoke won’t damage delicate foods.

The way this thing is designed also means you can do something really crazy– you can smoke liquids. How about a nice hickory-smoked Scotch? Applewood-smoked Bloody Mary?

The Smoking Gun comes packaged with two little jars of finely ground wood chips, one apple and one hickory. PolyScience sells packs of four more little jars for $25, but honestly, who needs them? Just get some wood chips for traditional smokers and throw them in the food processor. And who says you have to use wood? Try tea leaves, dried herbs, even tobacco.

The Smoking Gun costs about $100 on PolyScience’s website, but it’s worth it as long as you’re clear on what you’re getting. This tool gives a subtle enhancing smoke flavor to foods– it’s not a traditional barbecue smoker and you’re not going to make fantastic ribs or brisket with it.

Now please excuse me while I smoke this gin and tonic.

In terms of school lunches, an eighth of a cup of tomato paste has always been considered the nutritional equivalent of half a cup of vegetables—the new standards would have taken away tomato paste’s 3/8-of-a-cup boost and made a half cup equal to a half cup of vegetables. (Stories here and here).

So, ok—as much as we’d all like to ridicule Congressional Republicans for such an absurd decision, it’s not really a fight over pizza, it’s a fight over tomato paste and what constitutes a serving of vegetables.

So Congress’ logic is impeccable, right?

Kindly take a look at this list of ingredients:

Water, high fructose corn syrup, tomato paste, distilled vinegar, molasses, natural smoke flavor (plant source), food starch-modified, salt, sugar, spices, soybean oil, xanthan gum, onion powder, garlic powder, chili pepper, sodium benzoate (preservative), caramel color, beet powder.

“What,” I hear you shouting, some of you around a mouthful of pizza, “what horrifying concoction could possibly contain both ‘natural smoke flavor’ and beet powder?”

Why, none other than that most elusive of all questionable sandwiches, the McRib (ingredients list here). More specifically, the barbecue sauce with which the mold-formed, vaguely rib-shaped patty (which, incidentally, is made of “restructured meat product” and rests gently inside a bun containing “azodicarbonamide — ‘a flour-bleaching agent most commonly used in the manufactur[ing] of foamed plastics like gym mats and the soles of shoes.’” cite) is coated.

Notice, please, the prominence of tomato paste in that list. It’s the third ingredient. Now, McDonald’s doesn’t give out their recipes—that list up there is the closest the lowly consumer can come to knowing what’s in this stuff. But considering that Congress chose not to put the new standards into effect, two tablespoons of tomato paste still equals a serving of vegetables. And I’d be willing to bet there are more than two tablespoons of tomato paste in there.

And so, using Congressional logic, I hereby declare:

THE MCRIB IS A VEGETABLE!

In fact, to be more accurate, the tomato, though considered a vegetable in culinary terms is, technically (that is, botanically), a fruit. So, ahem…

THE MCRIB IS A FRUIT!