Every so often in our post-foodist world, I get this overwhelming urge to eat, well, shit. Not actual fecal matter (ew), but certainly foods a few higher-minded cohorts might readily scoff at. Let's be real, preserved, pasteurized, processed to the point of being unrecognizable, "shit" was the kind of cuisine we were raised on — none of this locally sourced, organic, artisan-crafted bullshit, but fruit "salads" made with baby marshmallows and Cool Whip, and jellied cranberry served straight from the can. (Thanks mom.) It's why, after years of trying gourmet frou frou versions like chili cranberry gastrique and cabernet cranberry chutneys, I'll happily still let good old Ocean Spray take up precious space on my Thanksgiving platter.