Processed foods.
Let’s talk about the modern miracle that is the chicken nugget. A majestic creation, forged not from a chicken per se, but from a vague memory of one. It’s not so much poultry as it is a poultry themed experience. You bite into it and think, “Ah yes, this reminds me of something that once possibly roamed freely!?” It’s got the texture of optimism and the flavour of regret, all wrapped in a golden breadcrumb shroud of denial.
And then there’s the ready meal. A triumph of science over taste. You peel back the plastic film like you're unveiling a masterpiece, only to discover a beige landscape dotted with mystery lumps. The instructions say “pierce film and microwave for 3 minutes,” which is coincidentally the same amount of time it takes to question every life choice that led you here. The mashed potato has the consistency of wall filler, and the peas look like they’ve seen things. Terrible things!
Let’s not forget the sliced bread. Oh, the sliced bread! The benchmark of innovation, apparently. It’s so processed it doesn’t go stale! it just slowly morphs into a sponge. You could drop it in the bath and it’d absorb your existential dread. And the ingredients list? It reads like a chemistry exam. If your loaf contains more E-numbers than a GCSE revision guide, you’re not eating bread you’re conducting a science experiment with jam.
Then there is the packaging! Every item individually wrapped in enough plastic to choke a dolphin, but hey at least your sausage roll is safe from the elements. Because nothing says “fresh” like a pastry that’s been vacuum-sealed since the Queen’s Jubilee.
But we love it, don’t we? We queue up for it, we microwave it, we pretend it’s food. Because who has time to cook when you can have a meal that’s been lovingly assembled by a robot in a warehouse in Slough!?
Processed foods: the edible equivalent of a shrug. Bon appétit.
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