On a trip to England when I was 15, I was forced by my well-meaning but clueless parents to wait in line for over an hour to get into the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich. Aside from the obvious injustice of forcing a teenager to parade through a museum with exhibits such as Sextants Through History—which was even more annoying once I realized sextants had nothing to do with sex—I had to wait in a sea of people—sweaty, dirty, germ-laden people. As I milled about, surrounded by the great unwashed, my latent fear of germs bloomed like staphylococcus in a warm Petri dish. Read more...
With the Fondoodler, I dripped melted rivulets of cheese onto anything edible—and a few things that aren’t. I personalized nachos with just the right amount of cheese and attempted to write my name in Monterey Jack. Gingerbread houses are passé with the Fondoodler in my kitchen—I’d rather eat saltine huts. In addition, this gadget helped me appreciate that melted processed cheese, aside from being delicious, has properties similar to cement. Read more...