Consider the Fork: A History of How We Cook and Eat

by Bee Wilson

There is a peculiar joy in holding a knife that feels just right for your hand and marveling as it dices an onion, almost without effort on your part.

Cadieux applies different standards to himself, however. “I don’t like thermometers,” he says. “I’m a romantic.” He has cooked so many thousands of steaks, he can tell instantly by the look and touch of a steak whether it is done to order. Which is all very well until Cadieux needs to translate his own superior knowledge for his apprentices. At that point, he gets over his dislike of thermometers. Even if he himself has no need of measuring devices, he gets his sous-chefs to use them as crutches until they develop the instinctive knowledge of a master.

This technological stagnation reflects a harsh truth. There was very little interest in attempting to save labor when the labor in question was not your own.

We often overattribute efficiency to the technologies we are accustomed to.

what we are prepared to accept in the way of the technology of eating is often determined more by cultural forces than function.

The unreliable quality of frozen foods contributed to the deep suspicion with which many shoppers viewed them. There was a general sense that frozen food was subpar: salvaged goods. The turning point was when Birdseye embarked on a PR campaign, renaming the produce as “frosted foods,” a name that implied icy glamour. “Frozen food” was something you would eat rather than starve. “Frosted food” was the stuff of childhood fantasy. It worked.

Molds are driven by fantasy and a desire for the spectacular, and our sense of spectacle changes over time. Medieval gingerbread molds, hand carved from wood, might depict harts and does, wild boars and saints. The stock of images available to us now is far larger; but our imaginations are often smaller. In kitchen shops today, you can buy a large cake mold resembling a giant cupcake.