Big Bamboo Jamaican Irish Moss Peanut Drink

I don't know if I can adequately vocalize the specific brand of rage I reserve for U2's "Do They Know It's Christmas?" Yes, I know it's by Band Aid. But with the level of simpering, holier-than-thou pretension, they may as well have just said it was all Bono. Seriously. That's not a Christmas song, because it contains a distinct lack of singing reindeer, beleaguered couples, and commercial joy. Also, because it's not Christmas in East Haven. Case closed.
And don't even get me started on Christmas Shoes. I mean, seriously, songs that are marketed toward a strictly Christmas audience (different from a Christian audience, but similar to an audience that responds positively toward the music played in department stores) are not automatically Christmas songs. Likewise, flavors that appear to be holiday-themed may, in fact, be the exact opposite.
I don't know what holiday Irish moss officially represents. Let's go with "Pick that thing up and put it in your mouth! Day" because like mushrooms, this drink is primarily derived from a food that should have never been consumed in the first place- Chondrus chrispus, also known as carrageen moss. Unlike mushrooms, it's used as a popular aphrodisiac in Jamaica, colloquially "putting the lead back into your pencil." Hi-ho, Ticonderoga, indeed. Did I mention this is inexplicably called the Big Bamboo? Fear for me, readers. Also, pray.
So I bought this because it was 75 cents and had snowflakes on it, which I now realize are an artist's renditions of Irish moss and peanuts, hence my associating it with holiday foods. If soda was a nightmare, this is what would appear out of the darkness just before you wake up, biting off your head and lower intestinal area. Actually, I partially take that back. This isn't really a soda, though it comes in a soda can. It looks like I've been suckered into buying another one of those FEMA nutritional drinks again. The nutrition facts on this read like a Stephen King novel. I'm not sure why someone put a peanut butter milkshake in a soda can and labeled it as a marital aid- maybe for Homer Simpson? But here it is.
Also, the can tab displayed remarkably faulty craftsmanship as well as visual comedic gold. Classic, Irish Moss, classic. The beverage is tan and HOLY CRAP IT'S CHUNKY. No. No. No. There shouldn't be visual, pointy chunks in a peanut butter milkshake. It smells inoffensive, like granulated sugar and Mary Jane candies. Like grandmothers, but so, so far from that. The consistency is a little gulp-worthy, with a thick, gelatinous pour. It separates easily and has a foamy, oily texture that leaves a sheen on the fingers. As I expected, the flavor is pretty decent, as most products with 98% milk, peanut butter, and sugar ought to be. It has a clean, persistent roasted nuttiness and a pleasant salinity from the seaweed. Two flavors that surprisingly work well together, neither one overwhelming or strangely flavored. The aftertaste was slightly metallic.
Aside from the sheer creepiness of drinking this, for the most part, it was innocuous and tasty, with a balance in sweetness that most soft drinks seem to miss. Of course, that still doesn't account for the 33 grams of sugar, but at least you don't feel like it's rotting your teeth as you drink it. Unlike "Christmas Shoes." The chunks, whatever the hell they were, dissolved before I had the chance to strain them out and examine them. Despite the Freudian euphemistic signs that are as overt as a Blue's Clues show, I'm totally above telling you that everything about this drink reminds me of sex. Oh, damn it. I mean, come on! Flesh tone beverage? Gently shake before opening? I'm not crazy. As for the side effects? Let's just say that I didn't feel any enhanced mistletoe interactions or heavily decked halls. Because those are completely meaningless terms, and I'm a Jewish girl. Damn you, Big Bamboo! Damn you to hell!

Maine Root Pumpkin Pie Soda

I can't quite tell what this soda's angle is. It was put out on the shelves after Halloween, yet has a jack-o-lantern on it. Because I totally didn't find this until after Halloween, I'm going to say that this is for Thanksgiving, for the college student stranded by themselves over break with little else to eat on the holiday except for this soda and McDonald's and day-old bakery rolls. Forever alone.

This makes for a depressing Thanksgiving, if you're drinking it for its intended purpose. I've tolerated selections from Maine Root in the past, and have enjoyed their stranger selection of flavors. This was a new one in the supermarket. Unfortunately, there are some flavors that just shouldn't be incarnated into carbonated form. Jones has exhausted that list to the point of insipid novelty, and now Maine Root is jumping on the bandwagon with their pumpkin pie soda. Even the kitten was kind of skeptical.

A few years ago I totally "wasn't" into Harry Potter and I "didn't" go to three of the midnight book releases and "never" cried at the end of the seventh book. Now I'm over that noise despite seeing some of my old high school friends totally cosplaying the crap out of those books, but was piqued by this soda as a result of a years-old curiosity surrounding the omnipresent pumpkin juice in the book series. I was hoping this would be quenching, rich, and almost vegetal in flavor with a deep underlying spiciness and sweet hint of brown sugar. It was basically all of that, reversed.

Imagine the weak, generic scent of a votive candle- the vague mishmosh of spices that somehow loosely translates to the flavors of fall and appeals to the sensibilities of people who consider Jersey Shore quality theatrics. That's what this taste like. It's overly sugared and smells synthetic, and completely lacks pumpkin. The sugar content in this is through the roof. It tastes closer to some of the pumpkin-shaped candies of the season than it tastes like its gourd brethren. And let's be serious- simply saturating it with an asston of orange food coloring doesn't make it taste more like pumpkin. Keepitcoming Love liked this soda because it did have a persistent and strong fresh nutmeg and cinnamon stick flavor, slightly sticky, dry texture included, but I wasn't sold on its weak flavor. I can't enjoy anything that wins the first place slot in the Family Feud question, "Soda that best resembles a Yankee Candle."

Domino's Artisan Pizza Italian Sausage and Pepper Trio

I'm a snob. There, I said it. The hard part is over and this post can commence like a meeting of AA with better coffee and no clothes. I'm a big ol' snob and I kind of resent the ironic tone of the Domino's ads and pizza box. "We're not artisans," it begins, as if one ordered Domino's to experience the full throttle perfection of a New Haven or Chicago pie to begin with but just got frustrated with the lack of computer systems and cute boxes. "We don't wear black berets, cook with wood-fired ovens, or apprentice with the masters in Italy." Nor do we trim our plush, black moustaches or refrain from using tried stereotypes, but whatever. I can deal. This is all below a line for your proud pizza parent to sign after its conception. Oy. With this strange marketing concept, eaters start with the knowledge that Domino's, like your single neighbor Chuck and his closet full of lingerie, is desperately trying to casually deny an identity it secretly desires.

But seeing as I'm a fan of all things admittedly artisanal or not, I still wanted to eat one of these. I had neither the cash nor the hunger to order three of these, but did go out on a limb and order the Italian Sausage and Pepper Trio one night. At $7.99, I'm not sold on the price. Maybe because there's a pizza joint nearby that offers a freshly made slice with two toppings roughly the size of an infant for $3, or maybe because I'm wondering if this is a result of the artisan tagline. It's basically their regular pizza in a different shape. I built a medium pizza with the same toppings for an annoying $13.34, so while this is more cost effective, it just doesn't scream artisanal. It would have served two people if we'd enjoyed it, I'm sure. That being said, we did not.

Opening the box, which was unsigned by our embarrassed pizziolo, the pizza was fragrant and thankfully, not dripping with greasy sausage remnants. The whole "tough guy" artisan persona seeps into the ordering system- an eater can take off toppings, but not add anything additional. This pizza came with a red sauce base, parmesan-asiago blend, Italian sausage slices, and green, red, and yellow roasted peppers. It smelled excellent and appeared to have generous toppings. But from the get-go, it was clear that not all the slices were born to be equally delicious.

The bad.

The ugly.

It was incredibly annoying to have the fact that these were carefully hand-made drummed into our heads and yet still find pieces that were half crust with two measly pieces of sausage and no cheese. I understand that a little human error is expected when you employ bored college kids to goof around and make pizzas, but we couldn't eat half of that piece because of all the crust.

The sausage was moist, but the tempting fennel and spice aromas were overwhelmed by the fatty, salty flavor. This was pretty one-noted, and needed some spice. If I could make a replacement to this pizza without fearing the wrath of the artisan pizza bros, it would be the addition of a spicier sauce, red pepper flakes, and replacing the banana peppers, slippery, vinegary pieces better suited to a deli sandwich, with roasted jalapeno pieces. The roasted green and red peppers complimented the sausage in a nostalgic way for me, as my family used to get wonderful sausage and pepper pies at a pizzeria near my grandmother's, but the banana peppers were just a sharp and cloying annoyance. I ended up picking them off.

Ironically, if Domino's enforced the artisanal approach instead of making fun of it, I think they could have a good pie. The topping choices are decent, if uninspired, and the square party pizza style slices are easy to share and portion. I think it's snooty to not allow any substitutions or changes to a reasonable extent, and somewhat of a cop-out to use existing toppings from their repertoire. Instead of not allowing the customers to substitute toppings, how about having toppings exclusive to the artisan pizzas? Marinated eggplant, sundried tomatoes, fried egg, fresh mozzarella or goat cheese and red potato come to mind as things I'd definitely be interested in ordering from Domino's simply because it would be different. By shedding the artisanal values and ingenuity, they stunt themselves in appealing to the every-man. Domino's is an average, mass-produced pizza company. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but if they want to step outside of the box, their customers should be pleased and surprised by the deviation from their norm.

Ben and Jerry's Schweddy Balls

Because the one thing my diet is lacking in are the alcohol-tinged balls of quintuple bypass survivors. I think, on my ever-expanding list of things I genuinely have no interest in putting in my mouth, sweaty balls, or really, the vast majority of testicles, are close to the top. When I saw this in the stores, though, it was hard to resist. Being a lover of all things malty and chocolatey, I figured I'd give it a swirl. And since Ben and Jerry's have had some deceptively decent flavors lately, how bad could it be?

While I won't go as far as to compare it to the tiresome task of teabagging, it's not too far from sucking balls. The label, a hot mess of words, sweater-wearing badgers, and catch phrases to heighten its appeal, describes this as being vanilla ice cream with a hint of rum, loaded with rum balls and malt balls. If you're not already familiar with the joke, it inexplicably capitalizes on the popularity of a very old Alec Baldwin sketch on SNL. Why this didn't live and die in the 80's, I'll never know. In fact, I'm not entirely sure why Ben and Jerry's is focusing on old television tropes in the first place, and at such a late time. Like its namesake, the joke is withered and stale. Ten years from now we'll probably see LOLcats Lingonberry and wrinkle our bionic noses in confusion.

My cat loves eating Schweddy Balls.

The vanilla ice cream with a hint of rum tastes less like Cacique and more like Chuck E. Cheese, in a neutered, pervasive artificial tang that reminds me of a particular Weight Watchers "dessert" of frozen Cool Whip. As a base flavor, this limits it to being a fairly lackluster BJ. This ice cream lacks the packed denseness of other flavors and abandons the traditional chocolate or caramel swirled offering as well, perhaps to detract consumers from wondering if they were getting Schweddy Balls and other offerings from the same general region of the body.

In any case, the resulting product is bland-looking and bland tasting, and to add insult to injury, the package is a real eyesore. But with the shoddy quality of the balls, I'm not surprised. Getting malt balls or rum balls was a crapshoot both in number and flavor. An AC/DC hit this was not. While I enjoyed the frozen, foamy texture of the former, the latter was exuberantly boozy in a rubbing alcohol and Band-Aid fashion.

With a haphazard product like this one, it doesn't take a genius to realize what a blatant marketing vehicle this is. And it shows in the quality of the ice cream, though I did note the subtle jab at making the ice cream a milky white vanilla, thin in texture and somewhat goopy. Regardless, this feels like the shoddy byproduct of a basement-dwelling manchild's inner fantasy, and one that I hope will soon be castrated and whisked from the shelves.

Dunkin' Donuts Chicken Salad Sandwich

New England is known for many things- polo shirts, PT Barnum's freak show, and summer homes, to name a few. We're not known for our selection of fast food. On a trip to Maryland a few years back, I made it my personal goal to visit no tourist attractions or interesting places, but to eat at every single new fast food restaurant within a five mile radius. The only real regional place New England can claim ownership to is Dunkin' Donuts. Hardly fast food, but a delightful morning staple or afternoon snack. I personally ate at least sixty thousand buttered bagels and croissants on my morning commute to high school. We had a Dunkin' next door. Brilliant marketing.

Had I not had a terrible aversion to mayonnaise at the time, I'm sure this sandwich would have seduced me out of my eighth period math class. My nostalgia for Dunkin' and need for a quick snack before catching a train led to my eventual purchase of the sandwich. The press release for the new chicken salad sandwich tells me that it's tasty and affordable. I should have known that the emphasis on cost would be its ultimate downfall as far as flavor goes, but with the influence of chicken salad in the fast food market lately, I figured I'd give it the old high school try and eat it while soaring through Connecticut.

Wuddup, Darien?

I was initially skeptical about eating the sandwich on a croissant. Greasy filling and buttery bread did not sound like a palatable combination. And chicken salad on a bagel just seemed inherently wrong, like something I'd make at home in a pathetic, mismatched attempt to avoid buying groceries. You know the type- hot dogs on tortillas, random condiments on Triscuits. The sandwich was average in all respects. You'd think that with the competition from Arby's and Subway, they'd try to do something to jazz it up, but this salad's provenance is clearly from the ever-generic ChickTron 92A. It is industrial and plain, a mere step above Elmer's glue and three steps below school lunches.

The filling was loose and goopy with small pieces of chicken no larger than a penny. There were no vegetables, fruits, or nuts, and while I generally advocate for a meat and condiment only sandwich, chicken salad really needs that extra somethin' somethin' to break up the banality of shredded chicken and mayonnaise. Apparently, that somethin' somethin' was vinegar, and lots of it. It made the sandwich filling ooze in a gloppy paste out of the croissant, which, with its center hole, looked a lot like a pustulating wound. The vinegar was all I could taste in the sandwich filling. Combined with the butteriness of the croissant, a mediocre specimen yet guilty pleasure of mine, it was astringent and overly salted.

Keepitcoming Love now uses this photo and meticulous arrangement of its subject as evidence of my obsession and insanity. She calls it Exhibit C.

As a recent convert to chicken salad, I'm certain that if this had been my formal introduction to all things mayonnaise I'd have run screaming for the hills and not come back until I'd donned a paper SARS mask and latex gloves. Its blandness and oily, sour flavor doesn't quite make it offensive, but if I hadn't been incredibly hungry I'd have had no problem tossing it after a few bites.

Twix Fino

Turns out America isn't the only country with snack foods that pander to feeding the obese, hulking mass of good old fashioned misogyny. I first saw this ovary-themed bar on Jim's Chocolate Mission, and Keepitcoming Love picked this up for me to review. Let me preface this by telling you something you probably already know. I'm a big girl. I like big foods. I like weird foods. So blahed-up, sized-down versions of snacks like 100 Calorie Packs just don't turn me on. However, I do like new versions of old classics, so with this in mind, I checked out this candy bar.
As Jim mentioned, the bar was designed as a "healthier" option to expand the brand to the female professional market. In replacing the shortbread cookie layer for a less bottom heavy wafer, it opens worlds of opportunities for insult. Y'know, for when you get bored during those stuffy suit business meetings and just wanna eat an entire pint of ice cream. Amirite, ladies? From the get-go, this sounds like a product that just begs to be backed by a sunny KT Tunstall single and at least one shopping montage. Single professional girl in the city seeks...a lighter future. Fatass.
The Twix Fino isn't too much lighter, in weight, than the normal Twix, which, for all intensive purposes, will be the UK version. Weighing in at a svelte 38 grams compared to the bulky 50.7 grams of its big sister and clad in a sexy, totally unexpected silver wrapper, the Twix Fino just begs to be seduced in a bar and swept up in the moment of a rom-com later at night. Unwrapped, the bar is flatter and a little wider than the original, but looks like your basic Twix knockoff. The mockolate melts creamily, imparting very little substance or nuances to its flavor, and the caramel was gooey but virtually nonexistent. As for the wafer layer, biting into it, it's clear that this is just one gigantic laugh at the progress of babymakers everywhere. What's inside? Empty space. Of course.
Aside from being a walking, edible version of "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell," this bar is largely unsuccessful in providing a product that would captivate its target audience. I'm taking liberties and assuming here that the average buyer of these is a smart, working, weight-conscious consumer, with a focus on looking sharp and having a snappy appearance. With a bar that sheds its crumbs everywhere and tastes mainly of sugar cones and mockolate, this is more geared toward Jersey Shore watching, filthy mouthed middle schoolers whose biggest fiscal year quarter end goals are to master the art of the no-handed bleacher blowjob. This bar's demographic is not looking for a product that cuts corners. We can do better than this.

Crystal Light Mocktails Mojito

As humanity moans and wanks off its average-sized dick, advertisers place a mirror in front of them to satisfy the need for products like cocktail-based mocktail-inspired juice-flavored water and pieces of chocolate that are thinner and sexier than bulky chocolate-based products like the ones in accounting, you know, in the cubicle across from yours with the cat calendars and sassy mugs with neon lettering. And small breasts on a large frame. There, I said it. Prose before hoes.
Of course I'm more focusing on the cocktail-based, mocktail-inspired juice-flavored water, the likes of which is tauted to be so pure to that of its cocktail brethren that its original formula likely fed Nazi troops back in '39 and mothered a few gorgeous Aryan children. However, Crystal Light Mocktails Mojito, assumes it's virginal in advertising but in real life, isn't really sure of its purity, like a girl who writes on Yahoo! Answers asking the masses if she lost her virginity by having sex over the internet. It's about as mojito-flavored as I'm mojito-flavored, or a tube of Lip Smackers lip gloss for underage alcoholics is. It's not bad, but it's not pure, just as this blog isn't bad, but it's not Pioneer Woman, either. Whatever. In the immortal words of Lionel Hutz, "This is the most blatant case of false advertising since my suit against The Neverending Story."
This mojito represents the naked truth of all that is evil on this planet. No joke. I hate it just a little more than I hate Rosie O'Donnell and naked self-portraits, but less than my hatred of the two combined. The racy idea that this is a drink that you can add one shot of booze to for every two quarts is unfathomably lame. Crystal Light doesn't know that I add scotch to my Cheez-Its, so hardxcore, but no amount of rum or rubbing alcohol can save this. It's practically fluorescent and smells like a chain smoker's mouth does post nicotine gum. There is neither hide nor hair of this on the Crystal Light website, meaning they're probably so embarrassed by this stint in womanly desires that they've erased it completely. This may be the last canister of Crystal Light Mocktails out there. eBay, here I come! I want my $5.
TL;DR, it's repackaged Crystal Light lemonade for women who have lost their way but wound up in the same place. Screw you guys, I'm going home.

Kraft Jet-Puffed Stackermallows

Of all the quintessential summer foods, marshmallows are probably the most classic and the most ambiguous. Call them the Princess Diana of your fantasy summer campfire lineup, a lineup that also includes Redd Fox, Buck Angel, and Jayna from the Wondertwins. Actually, don't do that, that's a cry for help if you do so. Especially if you've already made marshmallow shaped Bruce Oldfield inspired clothing. You need to be hospitalized, and if you commit a mass murder because of it, my website will get negative press in the newspapers. And lots of traffic. Hateful traffic.

And like Princess Diana, this summer, marshmallows have received a new and somewhat anorexic makeover. Too soon? No? Okay. Because my other joke was something along the lines of, "And speaking of Lady Di, she looks better in the car than she does at fifty," but that would have been tasteless and inappropriate. No more tasteless than photoshopping that ghastly hat, though! Anyhow, Kraft Jet-Puffed Stackermallows are indeed that, both stackable and marshmallows. They taste like the standard, fleshy innards of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man himself but are now rectangular and flattened.
When Kraft offered to send me these, I was immediately intrigued as with most foods, I like the outside's surface area to be fairly large so as to have a large amount of space for crust, seasoning, sauce, what have you, so I was fairly excited to try these out. I started using these in the method God wants us to use them in, by cooking them over a makeshift campfire on the gas range. While the marshmallows are optimally designed for room temperature usage, they simply do not hold up to the standard rigors of marshmallow activity. The corners of the Stackermallows are very prone to catching fire, and make it difficult to get an even char on each side. I wouldn't consider them jet-puffed in their flat form, either.
For the stove, I tested these in five distances from the flame. The first was approximately one inch from the stove, or as I like to call it, "The Evel Knievel." It can be seen at the 12 o'clock mark on my 14 hour clock. You don't know me! The distances went up by an inch, culminating in the one furthest from the stove, also known as "The Bedwetter." With each test, I kept the marshmallow roasting on each side for twenty seconds. On the one inch mark, the marshmallow immediately caught fire instead of broiling quickly like I expected it to and charred not only itself, but the skewer it held as well. It was like watching a crime happen and I felt uncomfortable after. Note that this is the only marshmallow of the entire bunch with an even, albeit charred, cooking.

The two-inch markmallow managed to retain some of its midsection, but the edges, border, and most of its backside, were burnt and gooey. It smelled like caramel but tasted like pain. When I flushed it down the sink, I heard its gurgles of cold relief burbling from the surface. The three inch met a similar fate, its shorter ends curling upwards like the belied surface of a ribcage. It slumped and fell off and ended up cooking on one side only. The four and five inches were indistinguishable as they both cooked only on the edges and still had a soft, powdery midsection. Just like me! The toasting was less of a failure than these.
It was clear that roasting these marshmallows would not have the desired effect, so I turned to my faithful microwave to do the trick in a makeshift s'more out of Newman's Own Organic hermits, a piece of salted caramel chocolate, and hot honey sauce. No, I wasn't high. No, I don't know what I While ten seconds in the microwave was effective for melting, the marshmallow did not retain its flattened shape and instead, melted off the cookie and slumped over. This effect could have been achieved with a regular marshmallow. With the cookie, the hot sauce, and the chocolate, this was a gross s'more, but not as a result of the marshmallow. If you're looking for value and novelty, pick these up.

T-Fal Actifry

I never imagined my few summer jobs in retail would ever come back to haunt me. For instance, I've never been offered a free puppy from one of the two imbeciles who owned the pet store I toiled at for two and a half years, nor have I been offered a free child from any of the summer camps I worked for. However, when I worked for T-Fal last summer, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would be offered the flagship product of the very store, the Actifry.The Actifry is the stuff of dreams and reality of the incompetent. Where else could you combine a hairdryer, microwave, and peoples' dieting hopes and fears and charge $300 for it? People would come in and marvel over the two we had in stock. One couple actually decided not to buy it because it didn't come with the premeasured oil spoon. It was something that both entranced and scared me.

When I was offered a chance to review the Actifry last week, I immediately accepted. The most lauded recipe of the product is french fries, for god's sake. So to make sure I was adequately prepared for the ensuing wonder, I invited FF over, bought a year's worth of vegetables, fruits, and chicken, and prepared to have a fryathon. The deal was that if the Actifry failed both to impress and satiate the three of us, we'd all go out to tapas instead and bemoan the football helmet-sized device.

The Actifry is fucking huge. And noisy. When it turns on, it scares the cat and makes a weak, yet persistent whirring noise as it churns its innards around. FF dubbed it "Baby's First Fryer" after seeing the aftermath of 40 minutes in the chamber. This thing is pretty weak. Keepitcoming and I tried it with both regular fries and sweet potato fries when it first came in. The problem really lies in its construction. The benefits to frying are that, if done correctly, the water from the product being fried will repel the oil and cook the food as it is heated without absorbing any extra oil in the process. Add that to the straining after and frying isn't nearly as bad nutritionally as it's made out to be. With this, the one tablespoon of oil is swirled around and distributed, but never really focusing on the exterior of the product versus that of a fried piece of potato that eventually develops a crust. With the Actifry, the oil doesn't so much develop a crust so much as it just unsticks the pieces after cooking. In our photos, it was sitting on top of the fries in small beads.

The real issue with this, which we found out after cooking no less than nine different traditionally fried foods, is how it's constructed. Older models of the Actifry had a large paddle that churned the foods similar to the paddle in an ice cream maker or fraternity. The model was revised to have a spade-shaped paddle that lifted and turned the items around. This is, of course, in its most ideal setting. In the worst of all scenarios, in our case, kettle chips, the shovel/paddle/spade scoops up all the chips, mushes them together, and carries them around for the remaining 40 minutes. I imagine this could be improved if the paddle had a setting that automatically switched the direction of its rotation after a prescribed amount of time, thereby eliminating the dreaded clumping syndrome and evenly spreading around the ingredients in the chamber. We found the paddle to better distribute chunks of things rather than long strips or slices.

It's also difficult to set the timer on the device as the angle that the display is set at is badly placed and reflects so that the dial can't be seen. It's also hard to use this at night as there is no backlight or setting to make it easier to see in the dark.

To exhaustively test out the mad skillz of the Actifry, we tested ten traditionally deep-fried items. As a side note, this is NOT an alternative to a deep fryer. We found it to be rather limiting with the number of things one could actually "fry." Anything tempura-battered or gooey is out as it automatically gums up the works. Deep-fried ice cream is impossible. However, unlike a fryer, it's easy to do like a crock pot and "set it and forget it." So we narrowed it down to french fries, sweet potato fries, a leftover frozen Davio's egg roll, tortilla chips, plantain chips, kettle chips, David Liebowitz's "foolproof" Korean chicken wings, onion petals, spiced stewed apples from the included cookbook, and deep-fried Oreos.

The Actifry rests its oil-free laurels on its french fries. Spoiler alert: they're not really that great. They come out tasting like a baked potato with less seasoning. Even my oven fry recipe from Cook's Illustrated, which uses around the same amount of oil, has much crispier, firmer french fries. These just had a hard, crackly exterior and a somewhat gummy and wet interior.Before. How bad would thick, skin-on fries be?And, meh. Any fries over two inches long were mangled by the spade of doom. It looks like we stuck fries in a trash compactor and then ate them. We ate the whole plate of these, but it was only once we were finished that we realized we weren't enjoying the texture so much as we were enjoying the copious amount of salt we'd put on top.Our next trial was sweet potato fries. A seemingly innocuous recipe. I expected these to be more turgid and harder to break in the cooking process because of how brittle they were when raw. Unfortunately, the Actifry pulled another Frymangling Maneuver again. These fared much better than the regular fries, but only because they were tastier when mushy. There was barely any crust on the outside. Raw fries...Turn into edible, vaguely crisped mush. And origami-like folded fries.Our next item was a frozen egg roll leftover from the last week's review. This actually turned out to be really tasty. It didn't break at all in the Actifry, though it occasionally got stuck on top of the rotating spade and had to be taken down so it could evenly cook. The egg roll soaked up all the oil and got very crispy without burning, as well as heating the frozen center. Delish.
We moved from Asia to Mexico with our tortilla chips. I've fried and baked tortilla chips before with awesome results, and this somehow screwed them up. After ten minutes, they had soaked up most of the oil, had broken up into a few small pieces, and were rock hard and over cooked, despite looking really delicious.
The plantain chips were fucking gross. Seriously. The flour and corn starch coating we applied infiltrated every bite of the chips and the slices were overcooked and brittle. Appetizing, no?
When FF arrived, we switched to a more finger-food-friendly snack, thinking that they'd be cooked well. Wrong again. While the chips were tasty, they weren't kettle chips in any respect. The centers of the chips were cooked, but not crispy, so again carried that same wrinkled baked potato texture. The outsides were crunchy. Wholly inconsistent results.
I was most disappointed in the Korean chicken wings. The photos on David's blog looked mouthwatering and fantastic. Using the exact same recipe, we took our chicken and coated it in the batter. It came out looking tasty, but in the scooping process, had lost most of its spicy coating. The chicken was well-cooked and juicy, but couldn't really be considered a piece of fried chicken or chicken nugget. With the sauce, it was passable, but overall, not an alternative for the glorious bird.
The fried onion petals looked like discarded aromatics...
And the spiced apples were only partially cooked and oily. They left a film on the fryer.
I believe the above photo illustrates the success, or lack thereof, of the fried Oreos. Purchasing the Berry Blast variety only added insult to injury. Two days later, the pan is still soaking.

So, to recap. Here are our ratings for each individual item, based on flavor, authenticity/resemblance to its fried counterpart, and ease in preparation.
French fries- 2/3 for flavor, 1/3 for authenticity, and 2/4 for prep = 5/10
Sweet potato fries- 3/3 for flavor, 1/3 for authenticity, and 2/4 for prep = 6/10
Egg roll-3/3 for flavor, 3/3 for authenticity, and 3/4 for prep = 9/10
Tortilla chips- 0/3 for flavor, 0/3 for authenticity, and 1/4 for prep = 1/10
Plantain chips- 0/3 for flavor, 0/3 for authenticity, and 0/4 for prep = 0/10
Kettle chips- 1/3 for flavor, 1/3 for authenticity, and 2/4 for prep = 4/10
"Fried" chicken- 2/3 for flavor, 1/3 for authenticity, and 3/4 for prep = 6/10
Onion petals- 2/3 for flavor, 1/3 for authenticity, and 3/4 for prep = 6/10
Baked apple and apricot dessert- 1/3 for flavor, 2/3 for authenticity, and 1/4 for prep = 4/10 Fried Oreos- 0/3 for flavor, 0/3 for authenticity, and 0/4 for prep = 0/10

Machine pros: Easy to clean up if frying, set it and forget it function, knowledge of exactly how much oil is going in food.
Machine cons: Larger than Rosie O'Donnell's left ass cheek, loud, takes a long time to prepare food, and $300.

So, either the Actifry is manufactured to only work with specific, low-calorie foods that need to be fried, and like the behavioral modifying drug Alli, discourages against using high-calorie foods in the fryer by turning them into facsimiles of poop, or it isn't as successful a device as the world thought it would be.