Garden of Breeden

After last week’s discussion on Bites about peach ice cream, we loaded up the kids and headed to Breeden’s Orchard to pick our own peaches. The plan was to two-fold. First, we would explain to our citified offspring that peaches actually come from trees. Then we would set the tiny Foxes to work foraging.

As we pulled into the farm in Wilson County, the perfect rows of low trees laden with fruit were almost enough to break the spell of the Disney movie playing in the minivan. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter. Children are not allowed in the orchards during peach season. The delicate trees can’t hold their own against so many kids. (Sometimes I know how those trees feel.)

In any case, we perused the country store and bought a half-peck of peaches for $9, a jar of Breeden’s Orchard creamy Vidalia onion honey mustard, which I haven’t figured out how to use yet, and three fried peach pies, which were still warm in their wax-paper pouches. A smiling lady sitting behind the counter said she had been making them all day.

As the kids were piling back into the car—we promised them dinner at Cracker Barrel as a consolation prize—I bit into one of the pies. Two thin layers of crust melted across my tongue to reveal the center of sweet, smooth stewed peaches. No sickly gooey syrup, just flaky crust and fresh warm fruit that were worth the trip to Wilson County.

Next time we go to Breeden’s, we’ll tell the kids we’re going to pick peach pies. Or we’ll wait till fall, when kids are welcome in the apple orchards.

Breeden's Orchard & Country Store is located at 631 Beckwith Road, Mt. Juliet, (Phone: 449-2880). From Nashville, take I-40E to exit 226 B, which merges onto Mt. Juliet Road North. At Highway 70, turn right and go 2½ miles to Beckwith Road.

Mango Madness—and a Little Sadness

Maybe I'm still smarting from last year's Miss Martha's Ice Cream Crankin' Contest, when my favorite entry finished second place behind a fruity concoction dubbed Mango Madness, but here's what we have to say about the newest flavor:

If the label didn't tell us otherwise, we'd swear it was peach ice cream.

We don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth. And we certainly don't mean to offend peach ice cream—or the generous folks at Purity Dairies, who dropped off several cartons of new ice cream flavors for us to taste. After all, we love peach ice cream like we love hot cobbler, porch swings, fireflies and the other hallmarks of summer in Nashville. But we were hoping for something a little more exotic.

What we were really hoping for was a carton of Spiced-up Chocolate. The fiery blend of chocolate ice cream, cinnamon and cayenne swept the chocolate category at Miss Martha's last year but failed to take home the overall gold (which isn't gold so much as it is the honor of being made into a Purity specialty ice cream flavor). The panel of expert judges argued the chocolate-pepper combo might not appeal to a wide enough audience, so they went a little more conservative.

We have no doubt that people will like Mango Madness—at least people who like peach ice cream will. We just can't stop thinking about what might have been.

Miss Martha's Ice Cream Crankin' 2008 cranks up Sunday, Aug. 3, 4 to 6 p.m. at First Presbyterian Church. Spiced-up Chocolate, this could be your year!

Hitting the Sauce

Many thanks to Al at Country Bob's All-Purpose Sauce, who recently sent six bottles of Country Bob Edson's original recipe for us to sample. In the great scientific tradition of Bites, we gathered our team of hungry scribes around the renowned Nashville Scene Taste-Testing File Cabinet. Our goal was to test the alleged versatility of the sauce by pairing it with an array of meat products procured from Krystal.

We slathered the dark-brown elixir on a selection of burgers, Chiks and chicken-finger kebabs (which we did not know existed until today—good to know, as who isn't always looking for more meats on sticks?). The unanimous feedback was that Country Bob's functions a whole lot like A-1 steak sauce, which is also based on a blend of tomato, vinegar and corn syrup.

While A-1 has trace amounts of orange puree and raisin juice, Country Bob's contains tamarind and molasses, two key components in Worcestershire sauce. One ingredient featured prominently on Country Bob's label that is absent (at least to the naked eye) in A-1 is Jesus Christ. In a font often reserved for biblical scriptures emblazoned across sunsets on inspirational calendars, the Country Bob's label declares “Christ is our CEO,” underscored by the Christian fish symbol. (Worcestershire sauce, while not overtly Christian, does contain fish in the form of anchovies.)

In its own right, CBAPS was plenty versatile in that it was absorbed (and overshadowed) just as thoroughly by the bun of a Krystal Chik as it was by the bun of a plain Krystal burger. Furthermore, it provided an adequate dip for the chicken-finger kebabs.

We will have to wait for the Kraft marketing team to fling some product our way before we can offer specific comparisons between A-1 and Country Bob's. Without a simultaneous tasting, it is virtually impossible to tell whether one is sweeter, tangier, tarter or more divine.

To try Country Bob's for yourself, sign up for a free coupon. Then let us know what you think.

A Dark & Stormy Night

In this week's review of Rumba Satay Bar & Grill, I drool over the fresh roster of citrus-infused cocktails that accompanies chef Joseph Rozario's menu of equatorial delights. Not least of these crisp refreshing drinks is the Dark & Stormy.

Popping up lately on bar menus outside of its preppy northeastern stronghold, the retro cocktail is traditionally made with Gosling's Black Seal rum and ginger beer—a non-alcoholic cousin to ginger ale that tempers the heavy flavor of the dark rum. In fact, Gosling's holds the trademark on the name "Dark 'n Stormy."

Rumba's standard Dark & Stormy (note the ampersand in lieu of the 'n) is made with Myer's rum and ginger ale, which has a less root-bound flavor than ginger beer.

If you prefer the zing of ginger beer, ask to substitute house-made ginger-infused lemonade, advises Rumba bar manager Charles Fields. If you want to make your own at home, he suggests boiling 2 oz. of fresh ginger in a liter of lemonade. Cool and mix over ice with dark rum, mint and lime.

If you're not mixing with Gosling's and you're squeamish about intellectual property law infractions, call it an Obscure 'n Inclement. Then close your eyes, sip your non-trademark-infringing cocktail and dream of the open seas—or at least Rumba's patio on the sunny shores of West End Avenue.

Go Fish Tacos

In this week's review of Aquarium, the family-friendly edu-eater-tainment spectacle of sea life and seafood at Opry Mills, I mention a beautiful but disappointing entrée of fish tacos. Presented playfully like street food—in festive foil wraps—and garnished with grilled lime and julienned jicama, the tacos made a great first impression, but they sank in the taste department, drowning in a bready tidal wave of batter and thick double-layered tortillas.

While fish tacos have become increasingly popular in our landlocked city, surfacing on menus from Rosario's to Radius10, very few taco traders have found a successful balance of fish and filling.

In my book, Baja Burrito still reigns supreme, with its glorious combination of freshly fried fish, raw cabbage, citrus-tinged creamy sauce and lime slices in warm corn tortillas. In the last few months, La Hacienda has come on strong with the addition of fish tacos to the menu. Just this weekend, on our weekly family Hacienda outing, I realized that fish tacos have replaced beef tacos as my regular lunch order. (Two fish tacos, one tostada ceviche and a Diet Coke, por favor.) The triumph of the Hacienda version is the delicate homemade corn tortillas, which don't overwhelm the small chunks of sweet grilled fish. While there's no creamy sauce, the squeeze bottle of green sauce on the table provides plenty of brightness and moisture.

La Hacienda and Baja Burrito price their fish tacos similarly, with three tacos and chips for $6—and Baja Burrito throws in a drink. Compare that to a platter of fish tacos with rice and beans for $12 at Aquarium.

(Of course, Aquarium offers phenomenal entertainment, with sharks, rays and guitarfish circling in the 200,000-gallon tank at the center of the restaurant. Compare that to Univision at Hacienda and Baja's panoramic view of traffic on Thompson Lane.)

The Crunkest Conch in Town

Of all the unexpected substances that have passed through the Scene's breakroom—usually en route to the dumpster—none was a more pleasant surprise than promotion empress Inga Baekkelund's gift of freshly made conch salad. The conch had come straight from Florida and was unusually tender, even after a nice long soak in lime juice; the yellow pepper and cucumber gave it a cool summery crunch. We asked Inga for the recipe, so conch yourself out:

This is my friend Dan’s recipe, as best I can remember it.

In a big bowl:
2 parts chopped conch
2 parts diced tomato
1 part chopped red, yellow and green bell pepper
1 part chopped onion
You can also add peeled and chopped cucumber and/or chopped celery if you like. I think it is great with the cukes added in.

In a separate small bowl (or even better, a Tupperware container with a lid), squeeze:
Equal parts fresh lemon and lime juice (about 1-2 cups).

Drop 2 whole Scotch Bonnet peppers into the lime and lemon juice mixture. Swirl around and let sit or put the lid on the Tupperware and shake. The longer you let the Scotch Bonnets sit in the acid mixture, the hotter it will get. Once the mixture reaches your desired level of hotness, remove the Scotch Bonnets and pour the citrus juice over the conch salad.

Salt and pepper, toss the whole thing a few times, and serve immediately.

Enjoy!

Is it good? I think the picture speaks for itself.

Dude, Can You Hook Me Up?

Curse you, chef John Crow. You introduced me to your devilish vanilla sugar, and now I need a daily fix of its tropical bean-flecked sweetness. Lately I’ve been sprinkling it into a titration of ginger ale and fresh lemon juice, and I’ve substituted it for plain sugar in everything from whipped cream to mojitos.

Recently, I ran out of my stash and went to buy some vanilla beans to scrape into the plain sugar to make a new batch. For the love of Madagascar, man. Those things are expensive. I’ve been pricing beans at Whole Foods and online, and it’s not uncommon to find a single bean for $5. Next time, just give me a bag of crack if you want to seed an addiction I can’t afford. I’m going to have to get a night job at McCormick’s.

There does appear to be some relief on the Internet, where bulk beans are available. For example, the Bourbon vanilla from Papua New Guinea at Beanilla.com, where I swiped the above photo, is currently on sale for about a dollar a pod. That sounds pretty good, but I was curious if anyone had a trusted spice source they could recommend.

Soylent Green Is Peas!

Question: If a particular vegetable turns you off, why would you eat it if it were processed into a generically tasty, crunchy foodstuff of indeterminate origin, then shaped to resemble a cave etching of its former self? Behold the Snapea Crisp—the snack of choice for people who want to consume something green and pea-shaped, but would prefer it tasted like that old bus-station vending-machine staple Andy Capp's Pub Fries.

A somewhat puzzled appreciation follows after the jump.

Mistaken Identity

In this week's review of Los Rosales, the charming Mexican restaurant in an unassuming Antioch strip mall, I praise the simple broth that preceded our meals. Studded with cubes of chayote squash and carrot, the soup was lightly salty and soothing, punctuated by the vegetables, which were tender but not soggy. It was like nothing I had ever tasted in a Mexican restaurant, yet it was vaguely familiar. An imaginary dialogue kicked off in my brain:

Me: Hey, Chayote, don't I know you? Have we met somewhere before?

Chayote (sheepishly, looking over his shoulder): Uh, no, I don't think so. I'm not from around here.

Me: But I'm sure we've met. Your texture, it's so familiar, like a green tomato. I know we've met before.

Chayote: Look, woman, I said No! I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a humble pear-shaped chayote squash from Mexico. Leave me alone.

Me: Gosh, sorry. Pardon the intrusion. You just remind me of someone.

Then it hit me. I have met that squash before, but he called himself “Mirliton,” and he was the centerpiece of an elegant Southern-inspired entree. Why the subterfuge? Did he remember me? Did he not like me? Was he ashamed to be seen in this lowly supporting role? Was he part of a melon witness-protection program?

In fact, mirliton and chayote are the same food, the plump, green-skinned squash found in the Southern U.S. and Central and South America. (Photo swiped from frutisandveggiesmatter.gov). While Los Rosales delivers chayote in a simple broth, chef Joe Shaw at The Standard restaurant on Eighth Avenue prepares a gorgeous and decadent mirliton in the Louisiana tradition, deep-fried and topped with bacon, crawfish and hollandaise.

With the firm texture of an unripe tomato, the fruit lends itself well to both preparations. It is a versatile—dare I say wily?—chayote.

Help P.J. Poach This Fish

P. J. Tobia–you might know him from investigative eviscerations such as "The Other Volz" and "Dr. Feelbad"–is cooking mahi mahi fillets tonight and needs some help.

He's leaning toward poaching, only because he hasn't tried it before, but he's open to suggestions. Got any?

If yours is the winning recipe, we can (almost) guarantee you immunity from investigation for the next six months, or at least until the next time P.J. visits the fish market.

VeggieTales Outed!

Not since the Tinky Winky and SpongeBob SquarePants scandals has the world of children's entertainment been rocked by such controversy. If the Christian fundamentalists weren't pleased when NBC removed religious references in VeggieTales, the following revelation is sure to have them beating their Bibles: Larry the Cucumber and Bob the Tomato are actually big ol' fruits!

While some Theocon groups may attribute this stealthy casting of fruits in the roles of vegetables to the Homosexual Agenda—which could not be reached for comment—others will simply denounce the botanical definition of fruit as hogwash from that "Satanic art" known as science.

Both the cucumber and the tomato, though culinarily considered vegetables, fit the fruity definition of being the usually edible reproductive body of a seed plant. And the picture after the jump leaves no doubt that, together, Larry and Bob qualify as a "reproductive body."

Bermuda Triangle

Hey guys, here's an urgent message from Doritos: Buy a bag of our product—only we're not going to tell you what the flavor is. And while you're at it, buy a car from us sight unseen. Just take our word for it—it's got the right number of wheels. Oh, and while you're here, just spin the wheel and select a neurologist for your upcoming exploratory surgery. Really, what kind of idiot would pay for a bag full of Brand X?

After the scanner spit out my receipt, I headed to work with the black-bag Doritos known as "The Quest." It's all part of some ass-brained promotion with a prize at the end: it requires way too much exposition for the payoff of chowing down on triangular gutbombs of unknown origin. (It's like the great Mitch Hedberg routine about the foolishness of handing out receipts for buying a donut: "I give you a dollar, you give me a donut—end of transaction.")

Anyway, you're supposed to guess the (ooh, the suspense is killing me) Mystery Flavor. Which is tough anyway with Doritos, because they're founded upon the very slipperiness of their flavoring. The secret to Doritos is that they're not satisfying. No matter how many bagfuls you eat, no matter how much mossy orange residue collects on your fingers, you're never going to get that knockout blow of flavor that the chip promises. No matter how spicy it gets, it will never provide that climactic burn you get from a piece of hot chicken, that punch that signals your brain, "OK, I'm done." 'Cause then you might stop eating the damn things.

But the mystery presented a challenge. So an emergency meeting was called in my office, and each of us withdrew a chip. We crunched. And chewed. And spitballed. (Not literally, thank God.) Lime. Definitely lime. So much lime you couldn't really get around it. Maybe the mildest of chilis underneath—maybe. After a few moments, each of us took a guess:

Lee: Mojito. (Trendy, flip; a good guess, except—no mint.)

P.J.: Margarita. (Accounts for the lime and the saltiness; we may have a winner.)

Jack: Really, we don't know what the hell Jack was going on about. He said something no one understood about a candy from his childhood, then got this look like Proust eating a madeleine. We haven't heard from him since.

Mr. Pink: Lime cafeteria Jell-O.

I went to the Doritos site, clicked on some kind of secret decoder, and entered our guesses. None matched, but it gave hints as to what I presume is the real flavor. Want to know?

Two words, after the jump.

Chickenholics Unanimous

As part of next weekend's Franklin Food & Spirits Festival, which benefits the Southern Foodways Alliance as well as efforts to save the historic Franklin Theatre, a "Potlikker Film Festival" will show films May 30 and 31 throughout the day from the SFA's archive of documentaries on regional delicacies. Among them is this morsel by director Joe York, who pays homage to Prince's Hot Chicken Shack. It's fittingly spicy, in every sense of the term: you hear about hot chicken's aphrodisiacal properties as well as its health benefits. After all, who needs a master cleanse when you've got a colon full of cayenne? From YouTube, courtesy of WhereTheLocalsEat.com.

It Was Just a Question of Time

Count Chocula, eat your heart out. There's a new chocolate breakfast in town—if you happen to live in Santa Cruz.

Mr. Pink butts in: Actually, you don't have to go any farther than the Produce Place in Sylvan Park, which sells Mo's Bacon Bar by Vosges. The ad copy sounds like Mickey Rourke coming on to Kim Basinger in 9 1/2 Weeks: "Rub your thumb over the chocolate bar to release the aromas of smoked applewood bacon flirting with deep milk chocolate. Snap off just a tiny piece and place it in your mouth, let the lust of salt and sweet coat your tongue."

Can't say I enjoyed said coating, which left more of a greasy residue on my palate, but applewood smoke and chocolate are an unexpectedly cool combination.

Carrington rebuts: Vosges Chocolates founder Katrina Markoff is a 1995 Vanderbilt grad. The alumni magazine ran a profile of Markoff in 2005. Here's an excerpt.

Magna Kum Laude

Next time I have to set a table, I’m going to take a page from chef Joe Shaw, who added a touch of whimsy to the formal setting at The Standard with bowls of key limes and kumquats in lieu of stuffy old flowers. Not only are kumquats vibrant and slightly quirky, they are deliciously tangy—nature’s answer to Sweet Tarts. On a recent evening, I bumped into The Standard owner Josh Smith and his wife, and I prevailed upon them to eat their first kumquats. I wish I had a photo of those puckered faces.

As I mentioned in this week’s dining review, the centerpieces of nut-sized citrus fruits had me quickly salivating for a cocktail—something ideally light and zingy—and I got to thinking about uses for the kumquats stacked so jauntily in the produce section at Whole Foods. This weekend, I think I’ll concoct a “kumquajito” with kumquats instead of limes. Or maybe a gimlet using a kumquat-infused simple syrup in lieu of Rose’s lime juice.

Again, I throw the question to you bartenders: What’s a good kumquat cocktail? Extra points for good names, and yes, given the product at hand, this could be a risqué proposition.

Dots to Talk About

After Flyte chef Bobby Benjamin's dramatic display of showmanship at Iron Fork, we've been all abuzz about Dippin' Dots—or at least about a non-trademark-infringing use of liquid nitrogen to create tiny frozen balls of flavor such as Bejamin's tomato-and-fiddlehead-fern “snow” from Iron Fork or the roasted parsnip “snow” that recently accompanied a seared blue marlin entree at Flyte.

So imagine our delight when the Dippin' Dots marketing team—including founder Curt Jones' daughter—stopped by our office this morning with samples of their new product, Dots 'n Cream. Packaged in traditional pint cartons, Dots 'n Cream is standard ice cream riddled with frozen pellets of the so-called Ice Cream of the Future. The Dot Squad also brought bags of original Dippin' Dots in a variety of flavors, which must be held at minus 40 degrees Fahrenheit to keep from melting. Since we lack the necessary cryogenic equipment for long-term storage, we ripped into the pouches of Dots before they melted, despite the fact that it was breakfast time.

Who doesn't like tiny beads of ice cream? Even though they are so cold they rip the skin off your tongue and lips, Dippin' Dots are just plain fun. Better still are the cartons of Dots 'n Cream, an intriguingly textured confection—we particularly enjoyed chocolate ice cream with mint Dots—that is stable at higher temperatures and consequently less injurious than the original minus-40-degree pellets.

Pretty soon, you'll be able to find Dots in Cream at Kroger and Walgreens. For now, you can try them and all Dippin' Dots products at four locations in the Nashville area, including two new pilot stores at 1100 Hillsboro Road in Franklin and Old Hickory Boulevard at Nippers Corner.

The Hillsboro Road location will celebrate its grand opening and the 20th anniversary of the founding of Dippin' Dots this weekend. On Saturday and Sunday, the store will offer discounts, games and prizes. On Saturday, Dippin' Dots inventor Curt Jones, a Nashville resident, will be on hand to demonstrate the science behind his famous frozen BBs at 1:30, 3 and 5 p.m.

(Someone please tell Chef Bobby.)

Riders Up, Bottoms Up

At the risk of sounding like a blog entry on StuffWhitePeopleLike.com, I can’t help but celebrate the annual coincidence of the Iroquois Steeplechase and the lesser-known cricket match between the Nashville Occasionals and Paget’s Marauders this weekend.

Like the thirstiest of Anglophiles, I’m already salivating for a tall glass of Pimm’s to sip as I ogle thoroughbreds and men in white trousers competing for glory on Nashville’s momentarily emerald fields. Currently, I’m busy devising a delivery system by which I will smuggle all the ingredients into the events without any glass bottles.

I’ve got it almost down to a science: Pour the Pimm’s No. 1 gin-based liquor into the plastic 2-liter bottle of the chosen mixer and carry the requisite mint, lemons, limes, oranges and cucumbers in a baggie, to be assembled on site in tall plastic glasses filled with ice.

But here’s the sticky wicket: What should the mixer be? I tend to go with sugar-free ginger ale, since I plan to be drinking a lot of the refreshing cocktail and don't want to OD on high-fructose corn syrup. But cases can be made for ginger beer, Sprite and 7-Up, and some folks like to top off with a splash of soda, which seems redundant on a hot day when the ice melts quickly.

I’m curious if any of you bartenders out there have a different spin on Pimm's. Wimbledon is coming up, and I hate to get in a rut.

Burger Meisters

If you've read this week's cover story about the Great Burger Challenge, you know that the editorial staff at 210 12th Ave. S. is still recovering from devouring 16 burgers in search of the city's finest chopped steak sandwich. We found a hands-down winner at PM (2017 Belmont Blvd.), where Arnold Myint packs a burger with onions sauteed in butter, then bastes it on the grill with a mixture of garlic, Thai chili sauce and pineapple juice and loads it onto a multigrain bun from Provence, slathered with wasabi mayo. Having now tasted that burger no fewer than half-a-dozen times in the past few weeks, all in the name of research (i.e. our meals could be expensed), we stand by our choice. The PM burger is a superstar.

Honorable mention goes to The Edgefield, Radius10 and Five Guys, who also took home top honors.

Twelve other burgers made it into the running, including Bobbie's Dairy Dip, 12 South Taproom, Ombi, Rotier's, Brown's Diner, Red Robin, The Palm, Capitol Grille, Cheeseburger Charley's, Whole Foods Market and Fat Mo's. We even tried a Hardee's Thickburger for good measure.

But, alas, even our intrepid colons have limitations, and we could not try every burger in town. For example, neither McCabe Pub nor J. Alexander's was nominated for the initial round of 16.

Over at 360 Bistro, chef John Crow recently introduced a burger (available only on weekends) of Kobe beef stuffed with foie gras, duck confit and black truffles and served on a buttered bun with tarragon aioli, preserved tomatoes, arugula and goat cheese. We haven't tried it yet, but we've seen people eating it, and...well, they looked really happy. (Of course, maybe they didn't yet know the burger cost $30, with a side of truffled parmesan fries.)

We're keeping a running list of burgers, in the event that we ever feel like eating another burger again. It will probably be a while, but when it's time for the Great Burger Challenge: The Sequel, what other contenders should we include?

Memo to People Delivering Stuff for Us to Taste and Write About

If you have a product for Scene staff to taste and possibly write about, your odds of coverage are substantially higher if you time your delivery well. Take Sydney Garrett-Hayes, for example. She dropped off her delectable goodies from the Sydney Trading Company right around breakfast on Monday morning. That was just about the time Jack Silverman was thinking, “Hmm, if only I had a home-baked biscotti to dip into my coffee before I have to edit this raggedy dining review.” That's right around when Steve Haruch was thinking, “I need some rocky road fudge to help me write my biweekly tract of existentialist philosophy masquerading as a sports column.” Meanwhile, I was thinking, “Well, I haven't eaten in about 15 minutes, and there's, like, an hour till lunch.” And so we tore into STC's homemade fudge, coconut madeleines and almond brittle like villagers receiving a food-drop from the World Food Programme.

You may know Garrett-Hayes from The Standard restaurant on Eighth Avenue, where she prepares a selection of desserts to round out chef Joe Shaw's elegant menu of classic Southern-inspired dishes. When she's not making peach cobbler and pecan pie at the Standard, the queen of tarts is whipping up Sydney Trading Company's truffles, brittles, shortbreads, cookies, cakes, pies and crème brûlées, all of which can be delivered within a 20-mile radius of Nashville. She also offers a selection of boxed lunches and pastries, available with 48 hours' notice.

We particularly enjoyed the foot-long biscotti and the almond brittle, and we'd like to get our hands on some of STC's mission fig jam. To order from Sydney Trading Company, visit thesydneytradingcompany.com, or call Garrett-Hayes at 739-1212.

Do Me a Flavor

I must have been blinded by hunger while shopping for groceries today, because I mistakenly picked up a bag of cherry-flavored Craisins in lieu of the regular dried cranberries.

I'm sorry? Cherry-flavored dried cranberries? What's wrong with cranberry-flavored cranberries? Sure, I understood when Sunsweet started spritzing prunes with essence of lemon. Prunes are brown and drab, and they had become the perennial butt of constipation jokes. They clearly have an image problem, so if a little dab of citrus and a splash of yellow on the packaging helps eliminate the laxative stigma, I say spritz away. Or change your name to dried plums. Whatever works for you.

But cranberries, what have you got to be embarrassed about? Sure, there's the slightly delicate business about being good for yeast infections. But it's not like you've become synonymous with all things vaginal. And if you had, do you really think adding a cherry on the package helps matters? The extra flavor just gives you a slight hint of desperation—and cough syrup.

In the craven world of brand extensions, what's next? Orange-flavored grapefruit? Sprite-flavored Coke? Lettuce-flavored salad?

And so, Bites readers, I pose the question to you. Your next challenge in the quest for free Iron Fork tickets is to come up with the most absurdly redundant flavor layering.

And don't try saying bacon-flavored bacon. That would be just plain ridiculous.