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The Porn Issue

  • Writer: boxton9
    boxton9
  • Dec 12, 2022
  • 3 min read

Updated: Feb 1, 2023

Edible Hudson Valley/Edible Westchester, Summer 2018


By Julia Sexton


In this issue, we played with themes of food porn—it was inspired by Instagram and influencers and the notion that food imagery had become the new porn. The issue included, among other stories, poems about food & sex; a story about Jori Jayne Emde, manufacturer of love philters; a recipe that may harness the aphrodisiacal power of oysters; a review of a book titled, Chefs, Drugs and Rock and Roll; a breakdown of IG food porn genres; and a profile of an influencer that we titled "Porn Broker." I am still conflicted about the cake centerfold—we all know that women should not be viewed as things, and, especially, not as things to consume—but it made sense given the (often) intentionally off-putting editorial in the issue. It was baked by Jay Muse of Lulu Cake Boutique to mimic Marylin Monroe's 1953 centerfold in Playboy (the photo was—IMO, unfortunately—heavily retouched).


Despite cake-gate, this is still one of my favorite issues. Use the tag below (The Porn Issue) to explore its stories.


EDITOR’S NOTE SUMMER 18


Porny Dreams and Nasty Nightmares


In Shine a Light, Martin Scorsese’s documentary about the Rolling Stones, there is a scene where Keith Richards points out to the director that, from the stage, he can see the drum skin wobble when Charlie Watts strikes a beat. Thump goes the bass pedal, and a visible reverb radiates across the drum head like the surface of a pond that’s been disturbed. Astutely, Keef suggests that there are sights on stage that only he can see. Equally astutely, Scorsese trains his camera there.


My dream of food porn is millions of sights that only one person can see, uploaded onto Instagram for the delectation of the masses. My favorite Instagrammers are not influencers and they’re almost never in dining rooms. I dig the strange visions captured by people who are elbow deep in their craft.


Just as there are selfies, there are now “cheese pulls” and “pasta lifts”; Instagram food porn has fallen into conventions. But my own favorite Instagrammers are those with more unique points of view. For instance, I love when @andynusser (executive chef/owner at Tarry Lodge) captures the miraculous geometry of a pile of tripe in a sink. Or, also by @andynusser, a pot of pinky-purple octopi: In this image, an otherworldly tangle of swirling, curling tentacles is corralled within a perfect, gleaming circle of steel. Another is by Tony Scotto (@droppastanotbombs), chef at Fish & Game, whose camera spelunked the gothic caverns of bread dough that had been excavated by CO2 over a two-day ferment. Give these folks a follow; they will show you things you have not seen.


But enough of my porny dreams. Here is my nasty nightmare: I’d hate for all those beautiful and unique visions to be suppressed by the banality of a number. Instagram offers lots of things, but its scariest gift is data. By Instagram’s design, every post is thrown up against the wall to be subjected to a humiliating public referendum on its popularity.


Don’t we all know that the most interesting kids in high school were never the most popular?


With our Food Porn issue, we’re celebrating all the kooky kids who were always the coolest ones, anyway. We’re delving into ideas and images that makes us hot, and that, sometimes, turn us off. We’re hoping that you also find this issue, just like regular porn, simultaneously gorgeous, bizarre, lust-inducing, funny, serene, fetishistic, loving and weird. We’re hoping, at the very least, that we give you an eyeful.


Go ahead, now … close the curtains and turn the page.


Julia Sexton, Editor-in-Chief

@juliasexton

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About Me

I Was Supposed to Go to Grad School

Growing up in a large, loud family of 7, they use to call me “Pass Me The, Pass Me The” for the way that I’d try to doctor my dinner with whatever condiments were on hand. At about 8 or 9, I gave up on condiments and took control of dinner entirely, cooking out of a beat-up copy of The New York Times Cookbook that I still own, my little penciled-in annotations intact. I cooked for 7 people nightly, all throughout high school. By the time I was winding up college, I’d become a damn fine cook.

 

My father was a professor of American History. I figured I’d follow in those footsteps, teaching Dickens to 18-year-olds who were not at all interested. I gathered applications to doctorate programs, meanwhile, I took a job as a waiter in a busy catering company. The kitchen where I worked was perpetually understaffed—my cooking skills were quickly identified and I was press-ganged onto their crew. I LOVED it—the excitement, the creativity, the freedom, the trench humor, learning professional cooking techniques. There I stayed for several years while my graduate school applications gathered dust.

 

Cue me, later, a refugee from a crash-and-burn restaurant opening where I was not only the sous-chef, but also the loan application writer and babysitter for a chef/owner who had gone spectacularly off the rails. By then, I had a couple of herniated discs and no desire to stay in restaurants. I moved back to the world of words, and I’ve never looked back. 

 

Since then, I’ve been a restaurant critic, a national award-winning blogger, a food journalist, a travel writer, a columnist, a cookbook author, and the editor-in-chief of four Edible titles. I can’t wait to see what's next.

 

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