How does it feel to be destined for the dinner table? Most people would prefer not to think about it, but illustrations in vintage cookbooks often make the journey to the dinner plate seem like a glamorous and exciting journey. Betty Crocker's Outdoor Cook Book from 1961 (mine is first edition, third printing) has plenty of food that is thrilled to be prepared for dinner:
I could understand the potato wanting to die. His creepy eyes and apparent skin condition won't win any friends. The other foods seem ready to jump into the potato-egg scramble too, though. The onion just can't wait to burn her stinky little feet on a hot pan.
Some foods think dinner is a luxury treatment. Apparently being made into potato salad is the veggie equivalent of a day at the spa:
The potatoes are having a moment of zen as the celery anoints them with oil. (Well, I think the baby potato fell asleep. The others are meditating, though, and glad that the baby finally shut up.) Again, the onion wants in on the action. Apparently BO isn't as much of a detriment to one's social life in salad circles.
Being made into dinner is relaxing for the bread too.
Yes, bread appreciates a good campfire like anyone else. The baguette enjoys some wine as he toasts, and the loaf of sandwich bread warms her crust as she thinks of a song to sing with the muffin as they all await the knives and butter. Fun times!
Even the condiments are giddy!
They're thrilled to perform a ritual dance before sacrificing themselves to your potatoes and onions.
Just when I thought that all food was creepily happy to be dinner, I found an exception:
Fish are apparently not interested in being cooked and eaten, and they're not afraid to let you know it. The woman looks mildly surprised. I'm not sure whether she's shocked that the fish isn't more cooperative or that it is twice the size of the man. The struggle surely took a while-- the man is in a full wet suit. He apparently managed to catch the fish in the open ocean and wrestle it to shore. Not a small feat!
In any case, the woman doesn't seem inclined to grab the ax and help the man out. Is she passive-aggressively hoping the fish wins since she's just been waiting for a day and a half, heating the skillet over the fire until it begins to melt?
The division of labor does not concern the fish, though. He has enough angry stares for everyone: