White Trash Sunday: Koolickle, anyone?

Sunday, T minus nothing. I’ve been waiting for this day for weeks, and here we finally are: White Trash Day.

We're in Queens at my sister’s apartment. The day is young, today's feast is on the coffee table in front of us, and we're all buried under blankets on the couch. I’ve got the stuff of legend in my hands – a Kool-Aid pickle – and comfortably sandwiched between Jose and Yaz, I size up my quarry.

John T. Edge puts it bluntly in his New York Times article: the Koolickle is "either the worst thing to happen to pickles...or a brave new taste sensation to be celebrated."

In the noonday sun, the Koolickle is an electrifying presence: wrinkled and warty, glowing, purple, phosphorescent. It exudes unwholesomeness – my face reflects its self-generated light.

Is this thing for real? Should I take a bite? Can I really do this?

What a day, what a day. And you know, I was thrilled when my sister raised the possibility of an all trash food fest. After all, no one enjoys a good gas station hot dog more than me. But when it came to authentic white trash cuisine, we were stumped. Sunday Fun Day rules stipulate that we have to cook – no twinkies, no lil' debbie snack cakes, no cheez whiz, no processed meat product.

Deliberation over the menu was intense. I argued the merits of such ill-conceived entrees as tempura-fried spam sushi rolls and government cheese fondue. No and no.

Eventually we turned to our trusty friend, the internet, for guidance, and turned up this culinary abortion: Sluicey Dab in a Foot Tub? Seriously? (If you click on the link, you'll need to scroll down to see the recipe.)

I tell you, Sluicey Dab was tempting, but ultimately we came to the somewhat misguided (I think) conclusion that white trash cooks are collectively trapped in some kind of 1950's purgatory. Whatever. Cheese in a can is, like, so futuristic.

The menu we settled on is true class (or should I say working class?) on display, a classic slice of mid-West Americana: sloppy joes, cole slaw, seven layer dip, cheese doodles, onion dip, deviled eggs, pig-in-a-blanket and potato skins.

But I just need to ask something: Is it really white trash to make your own mini brioche hamburger buns? Did the Dukes of Hazzard really eat organic cheese doodles? And why is seven layer dip always that terrifying green color?

Whatever. The koolickles overwhelmingly saved the day with their salty sweet funk, casting a pall of authenticity on our otherwise wannabe table. It's time to take a bite.

God, that's disgusting.

Here follows a more delicious account of a meal well enjoyed:

By Way of Introduction

Everybody eats. That’s a given, and most people love their food. But when it comes to the four of us – that’s me, my sister Sara, her fiancé, Jose, and Yasmine, that love verges on the crazy. And when I say crazy, I mean borderline obsession.

For us, food isn’t just what keeps us alive. It’s not just about pleasure. The food we cook for each other ties us together as a spoken and unspoken form of communication. Both implicit- and explicitly, we understand cuisine as family tradition as well as an affirmation, an exploration, and an exposition of all cultures through human history.

What a ridiculous statement, but oh so true. In my family at least, we don’t speak so much as we cook together, so that food has always been a valid form of communication. Moreover, we retain our immigrant heritage and Jewish identity largely through food, so that for my sister and I, eating has always been about history to an extent.

Returning to the present, the four of us are a kind of family – Yaz likes to call us the “new urban family,” whatever that means – and since family needs tradition, and our family represents somewhere in the realm of thirty years of professional culinary experience…tradition means food, and lots of it.

Like I said, we’re all crazy food extremists, and we don’t stop eating until there’s no more food left -- ever. Okay, maybe Sara, Yaz and Jose do, but not me. Let’s not mince words here, I don’t know when to stop and I like it that way.

Thus follows the new family tradition, Sunday…debauchery. Yaz with the names, has to call it Sunday Fun Day, but that’s a little too precious for my taste. I guess I’ll just call it SFD until I think of something better.

Yes, our Sunday debauchment began several months ago as a means to help Yaz get over a recent breakup. That first day – a crazy marathon of bloody maries, finger food, and romantic comedies – set the tone for all the SFD’s to follow.

The rules:

• SFD must happen at least once a month and travels from house to house consecutively.
• Whoever hosts SFD must pick a theme: Katherine Hepburn, epic battle, white trash, etc.
• The host must show at least three movies in accordance with the theme.
• The host must cook according to the theme and make enough food to feed at least ten people.
• All of the proceedings must be carried out in pajamas or sweat pants.
• And remember, SFD is not SFD without a healthy dose of liquor.