I've barely figured out how to upload a blurry picture of my dinner to social media; I am not about to attempt to express my political opinion in less than 140 characters in the vain hope that I might sway someone's vote.
An army marches on it's stomach, so I'm thinking about what food I want to see for the next four years. Ann Romney told us that she was through with tuna fish and pasta, and I'm not. I welcome tuna, as long as it's not the over-fished bluefin variety. And if you tell me that I can't have pasta, I will slap you with a wet noodle.
In the Great Depression, audiences gasped when Hollywood threw up scenes of the very rich living it up, loving the vicarious thrill. Do I want an administration that tweets pictures of fancy, white tie dinners where silver domes are whipped off of the entrees and live birds fly out, actually tweeting? I love foie gras, but four years of slathering it on the poor like crackers and licking it off sounds passe.
When Michelle Obama strides out in a sleeveless dress, I immediately slam my menu down and say, I'll have what she's having. She planted an organic garden, and urges diet and exercise. Sounds like a discipline we can apply fiscally as well.
I want to see what the current garden yields. The soil was in poor condition when it was started. The seeds have been planted and it takes several seasons to grow the most flavorful crops.
Farming is hard work, but I am willing to do my share. If the result is better, local food, and buff strong arms -- I vote for that program.
That's as politically deep as I get. I am always careful not to bite off more than I can chew.