Yogurt. Yoghurt. Yoghourt. Yaourt. Yogur.
I don’t like you, fermented milk stuff. I don’t like your freakish consistency, neither solid nor liquid. I don’t like that you’re marketed in all kinds of gross variations that just confuse the matter further. Most importantly, I don’t trust a thing that doesn’t even know how to spell its own name.
“Oh,” you argue. “I’m Turkish. My original name is yoǧurt so it’s not my fault that foreigners can’t decide on a spelling.”
“Well,” I spit right back, “‘baklava’ is Turkish too and everyone’s agreed to keep its original spelling. Who are you hiding from, Yoǧurt? What are you really after? Who do you work for?!”
Of course, Yoǧurt doesn’t respond because it’s a weird blob thing and isn’t sentient (that I know of).
Despite my concerns about what exactly is going on with yoǧurt, I probably eat eight servings a month for a single reason: I am incredibly lazy. It’s just too damn easy to scrape some nasty yogurt into a bowl and mix it around with a lot of granola and call it dinner. Plus, the label says that it’s better for me than most foods and it contains all kinds of good bacteria and my digestive system seems to agree, so. . .
Here I am, eating yoǧurt.
If that’s even its real name.
A Dumb Joke
Q: What’s the difference between (insert name of place you don’t like here) and yogurt?
A: Yogurt has active culture. [Thank you and have a good weekend!]