By Matthew Yglesias
I like to think we can keep things civil here on the IFA, but I have to object in the strongest possible terms to the claim that “fresh dill is awesome.” Fresh dill is not awesome. It’s not good. It’s not okay. It’s bad. Bad bad bad bad bad bad.
Let me tell you a story about dill. Once upon a time, when I was a foolish seventeen year-old, I spent the summer of 1998 in Nizhny Novgorod. The mayor proudly told me that “Nizhny Novgorod is the Detroit of Russia!” In the Soviet era, being made to live in Nizhny Novgorod was one way they could punish dissidents. The government defaulted on its debt that year and the value of the currency collapsed. I had to leave town early because striking miners who hadn’t been paid in months were preparing to rip up the railroad tracks.
But the worst of it by far was the dill.
Dill, dill, everywhere. In everything. All the time. I didn’t—and still don’t—speak Russian. But I tried mightily to learn to say “no dill.” “Nye ukropom,” I believe. That would get you not so much no dill in your soup or cabbage or potatoes or whatnot as less dill. And less dill was a mercy. A sweet, sweet mercy.
Here in America, fortunately, we don’t eat like that. In fact, I’m hardly ever offered any dill. And I like it that way. This is the greatest country on earth, and if Ezra wants to dillify maybe he should move to Russia instead with his commie pals.