"King Corn" is a new film that premiered in the Bay Area this past weekend. In it, Ian Cheney and Curt Ellis --best friends from college -- plant an acre of corn in Iowa and attempt to track its path into the food chain. I caught up with director Aaron Woolf, whom I knew of from our undergraduate years at a small college in Vermont.

Meghan Laslocky: Can you give us a "before starting the film/after starting the film" picture of your dietary habits?

Aaron Woolf: Before I started working on "King Corn", I don't think I really understood that there was a connection between the way we grow things and the fact that we aren't eating well in this country, which seems pretty obvious now. I came from a family that always ate well, but the way people eat now, like Curt, my cousin [producer and on-screen talent in "King Corn"] who is a generation younger, versus how people ate when I was a kid, is so different. When I was a kid, we went to the wholesale seafood market, mussels were 17 cents a pound because Americans didn't eat them, and we got our meat at a butcher, Mr. Olishefsky, who wore a white gown covered in blood. Behind him in the walk-in cooler were sides of beef. It wasn't a mystery to me as a child where meat came from -- I knew it was a cut-up animal. But I think if you grew up in Curt's generation, the disconnect is pretty major. I think that's one of the lessons of the film: that Curt and Ian are of the cornfed generation, and I am less so, and it took so little time -- the sixteen years that separate us in age -- for that major shift to happen.

Initially, when I started this film, when people asked me about how making the film has changed my eating habits, I'd say, "It's changed the way I wish I ate." But now that the film is done, it's definitely changed the way I eat, and I don't eat fast food. It's instinctive now. What we choose to eat is such a combination of knowledge and religion and training. It's hard to change your diet simply because it's better to do x rather than y, but after seeing feedlots with 100,000 head of cattle -- that's something that's hard to get out of your mind when you look at a hamburger.

Now I try to eat food that lived a life. I'm not a vegetarian, and I don't make much of a distinction between an animal and a vegetable. We derive our life force from eating living things. It's more the way that they lived. For example, I think that eating something that lived in an undignified setting, like pork in confinement that never saw the light of day, is spiritually unhealthy. But the same is true for an asparagus spear that was raised industrially. I wish I could just eat things that were raised in a dignified way that that we would want to incorporate into our own bodies.

ML: Knowing what you know now, what's your take on the rising consciousness of where our food comes from?

AW: I see the benefits of having convenient things to eat, and I still think that's true on some level. And there's a lot of snobbery in the upscale movements, people make a lot of assumptions about other people's ability to choose good and fresh food, even about if they have access to it.

ML: What came as a surprise to you as you did research for the film?

AW: It was a surprise to me how much we have almost consciously created a fast food society, in terms of the Farm Bill and the shift in policy in the 70s. I don't think there is much true evil in the world. I don't blame Earl [Earl Butz, President Nixon's Secretary of Agriculture, whose policies supported large-scale agribusiness and who is interviewed in the film]. I don't blame corporations, but we have gotten to a place where the idea of having more isn't always the best thing.

ML: In the film, you use these great vintage Fisher Price farm toys and kernels of corn to illustrate how the Farm Bill works. What's the back story there?

AW: We were looking for a way to describe obtuse concepts like agricultural subsidies. People are paying to see this film, so we had to come up with something that was at least palatable. We bought one of the Fisher Price barns at Chuck's farm during the auction [see the film for a touching farm auction scene], and the other barn is one that Curtis played with as a child, and probably me as well. Part of the point was that children still play with those toys, but now they're part of a perpetuation of a myth about farming that just doesn't exist. Plus the Fisher Price toys look like food labels on processed foods -- the idealized barn, the livestock -- for a product that contains hog meat from an industrial farm. There was something poignant about that, toys perpetuating a notion about the American heartland that is less and less real.

ML: Has making this film changed your life?

AW: I've made a lot of films, but never before has a film that changed the course of my life as this one has. I'm opening a grocery store in, called Urban Rustic, that incorporates documentary into it, so buyers know where their food comes from. I'm doing this with my partners, Dan Cipriani and Luis Illadeas. On the shelves, there's an LCD or a viewmaster, and you can see where everything comes from. Much in the same way in "King Corn" we've explored where our food comes from, in Urban Rustic, we want people to know where the food comes from. In the store, people even know where the wood flooring comes from -- it's from trees we cut down ourselves on my family's land in the Adirondacks. It's an attempt to take back what the industrial food system has obscured from us.

"King Corn" is currently playing at the Shattuck in Berkeley and at the Red Vic, and it will air on PBS's Independent Lens in the Spring. It was produced with support from San Francisco-based Independent Television Service [ITVS].

Read a review of King Corn in KQED Arts & Culture

Since I always start my posts with a warning, here goes: Don't read this if you have an aversion to Sarah Silverman or food that resembles body parts or if you worship the ground that Martha Stewart stencils.

I mean it. Move along now.

Okay, for those of you who can hack it, my assignment for this Halloween was to write again about scary food, this time with the political incorrectness on the side. (It turns out that political incorrectness is not only very high in calories, but it's also raised on corn in Burma and slaughtered by four-year-old orphans who have flies in their eyes and harelips and call out, "Angie! Angie!" during the two hours of sleep they get a night.)

Whoops.

Anyway, let's start with a definition.

Scary [skair-ee] Adjective, scarier, scariest
1. Ridiculous
2. Tacky
3. Of or pertaining to Martha Stewart

Let's start with the "Ghoulish Petit Fours."

So, I just watched the Sarah Silverman Show last night, and these little numbers bring to mind a song she sang called "What happened to the white dog poop from the Seventies," which I thought raised a very legitimate question. (Attempts at answers located here, though I tend to think the most likely culprit is CORN and no one says so expressly. Get Michael Pollan on that immediately, dammit.)

Anyway, as usual, I digress. In short, Martha's Ghoulish Petit Fours made me thankful that poo doesn't smile at you. (But what if it did?) Then I realized that it's unclear if the lower dot on the Martha ghouls is supposed to be a mouth or a nose, which led me down the path of imagining some poor lackey at Martha HQ making these things and getting the face wrong the first time and getting strangled with the licorice "lace" that supposed to go around the base of the witches' hats.

(Note, never accuse Martha of not recycling a great idea, as with these Mashed Boo-tatoes.)

Moving on, let's take a look at I Scream Sandwiches. The salient quote? "For neat rounds of ice cream, snip away the carton with scissors, cut ice cream into 3/4-inch-thick slices, and make shapes with a 2 1/2-inch cookie cutter."

Shoot me now.

And now, the Martha piece de resistance:

Ladies' Fingers and Mens' Toes, which the site calls "ghoulishly good", a term that made me wonder just how much crack Martha's editors smoke to get through the day. At first I thought these atrocities were pastries of some sort, but they are in fact pretzels. Pretzels with almonds? Martha, c'mon.

The part I liked the most about this recipe was the implied part: Notice that the last ingredient listed is "fried rosemary (optional, for toes)". Not fingers, mind, just toes. Toe hair.

Good grief.

Before I wrap up Martha bashing, I did want to bring your attention to something else I found on Martha's site, which while not food that can be eaten, I hope still qualifies to be on BAB.

Behold the lobster baby costume.

Who would do this to their child? Notice how it looks like either a) the lobster is pooping the child (so sorry, I'm channeling Sarah Silverman today), b) the lobster is giving birth to the child (at least it's not breach), or c) the lobster and the baby are inter-species conjoined twins and appear to share a rectum. And note the evidence, yet again, of Martha's editors smoking crack! "In the end, any costume you design will be memorable and guaranteed to be loved by your friends, family, and, of course, baby!" (My italics.) Since when do babies that age love anything but boob and Teletubbies?

Okay, I'm done with Martha, but lest you think I'm a horrid bundle of vitriol who deserves to be bound with licorice, gagged with hairy man's toe, and tarred and feathered with a hot glue gun, let me leave you with two videos of Halloween recipes that didn't make me want to slit my wrists.

Behold British mini-Martha, whose name is apparently Tilly. (Tilly! Tilly! And don't you just want to eat up her accent?) I played this three times just for the sheer joy of hearing the mysterious braceleted Tilly say "lolly sticks."

And now meet Pink of Perfection's pumpkin soup, which is easy and I bet scrumptious. Oh, and I like her dress. "Her" being Sarah McColl, winsome talent/Juliet Binoche lookalike behind Pink of Perfection, "the thrifty girl's guide to la dolce vita."

Something tells me Ms. McColl would be great fun to go lingerie shopping with, then afterwards you'd stop by some chic tiny little restaurant at 3pm and wind up there until 6:30 when people start coming in for their dinner reservations and you've drunk four glasses of Beaujolais and have a horrid case of the giggles and start laughing about your vibrators and the bartender -- who is very cute and you have been flirting with -- has to cut you off.

So much more fun than Martha.

I'm a white girl writing about the scariest foods I could find at Ranch 99, the Asian supermarket in Richmond. Prepare yourself: what follows is not politically correct.

But before we get into the nitty gritty, let me make myself clear: I think of myself as an equal opportunity eater, someone whose palate is endlessly expandable--I took on sushi at age 20 and haven't since met a piece of unagi I didn't like, and kimchee and I became fast friends in my thirties. And as for what other people eat, well, I tell myself that given the opportunity to develop a taste for it, I'm sure I too would develop a hankering for buffalo placenta soup when it's in season, as do a few of my Thai friends, or the crunch and instant protein fix of deep fried bugs, as does a British friend of mine who has lived in southeast Asia for twenty years.

And I'm conscious that my distaste for unfamiliar food is a luxury, in part the birthmark of someone who has grown up in a society that can afford to throw away guts and organs, tongues, ears and snouts.

The irrational wincing of the tongue, the squinching of the brow when faced with threatening food must surely be conquerable. In the context of food, "scary" is just another word for "unfamiliar."

I've long been a fan of Ranch 99, purveyor of fine pea shoots, crustaceans, galangal, kecap manis (a thick Indonesian soy sauce), and pastel-colored rice flour pastries that I grew so fond of when I lived in Thailand, and I delight in even seeing the packaging for "chicken paws" (feet), "free run chicken" and Confucious Family Liquor.

But this visit, the Sunday before Halloween, I was shopping differently: I was on a hunt for the six scariest food items I could find. And dammit, I was going to face my fears and eat them. And so was my friend Tristan who was visiting, who brought with him his usual penchant for talking about disgusting things he'd eaten and how disgusting the gas was that they gave him. We thought we were sooooooo sturdy. Nothing could possibly be as disgusting as our worst imaginings made them, right?

And so, dear reader, here you are, in reverse order, the top six scariest foods to be had at Ranch 99, including reasons for deeming them scary and taste-based assessments:

Number 6: Vermont Curry

Reasoning: As a native Vermonter, I've long wondered about the absurd pairing of the words "Vermont" and "curry" every time I see this ubiquitous item in an Asian market. But I've been willing to keep an open mind about it given that Vermont is actually known for some surprisingly tasty weird combinations, like the tuna sandwiches dipped in egg, fried like French toast, and topped with maple syrup, that I scarfed up as a child. So it made it into my shopping basket in the spirit of supporting Vermont quirkiness in all its permutations.

Verdict: Vermont Curry surprised me by emerging from the box in dung-colored blocks, sort of like a large chocolate bar. I broke off a few and tossed them in with carrots and onions, as directed by the package. After I cooked it, I let it cool for a few minutes, and a dark brown sludge had gathered across the top--far thicker and more ominous looking than the skin the develops on hot Jello chocolate pudding. ("It's okay," Tristan said with hope in his voice, "My mom's gravy does that, too.")

But by the time Tristan and I sampled the pleasures of Vermont Curry, I was already in high gag mode from a few other items listed below. My tongue was contorted in anguish, and poor Vermont Curry got the short end of the stick. Were I offered a plate of Vermont Curry under different circumstances--like after release from a concentration camp or tempted with the reward of a million dollars--I would eat it.

Number 5: Smoked Veggie Goose

Reasoning: I found this in the deli section, and while it did look a bit like goose, complete with goose-pimpled skin, it looked like goose that had spent a few centuries in a catacomb and then been rehydrated with pond water.

Verdict: One would think that mere wheat and soy sauce pattied to resemble meat would be innocent of culinary crime. Tristan noted, "It's a shame when you recreate meat you have to include the skin" and then took a bite. Then I took a bite. After a few minutes of debate, we arrived at an apt description: smoked veggie goose tasted like rotten chalk with a hint of imported barnyard.

Number 4: Fried Gluten with Peanuts in Soy Sauce, from Taiwan

Reasoning: There's nothing in the name to indicate that this would be offensive (aside from the word gluten), but a mere glance at the scrambled-egg like globs floating in dishwater-colored salt water with peanuts that looked like they'd suffered from elephantiasis was enough to earn them a place in my shopping basket.

Verdict: Like Vermont Curry, fried gluten with peanuts in soy sauce was a victim of lineup--the smell of Scariest Food Number 1 (keep reading, you're almost there) was wafting through the kitchen, and had the gluten been chunks of perfectly ripe honeydew decked with proscuitto, I probably would have gagged. I took a bite, gagged, and staggered toward the garbage, only to remember that that was exactly where Scariest Food Number 1 was lurking, so my gag volcanoed into a hefty spit into my palm. I closed my eyes and tossed the gluten in the direction of the garbage pail and Scariest Food Number 1.

Poor little gluten. It probably isn't so bad.

Number 3: Pig Ears in Soy Sauce

Reasoning: Like the smoked veggie goose, I found pig ears in the deli aisle, but thinly sliced and looking quite harmless in a clear plastic deli container. "It could be brown chewy ginger/soy/wine-infused coleslaw," I thought. I've eaten cracklings, and I love scrapple and hot dogs, both of which surely have fragments of pig ear. Dogs highly recommend pig ears. Maybe I'm missing something.

Tristan tried it first. "I just thought about what it is," he said as a swallow turned into a gulp and look around for grapefruit soda. A slice of pig ear--I looked for a bite that looked like it was more meat than cartilage--made it into my gullet.

I discovered there's a reason I don't like dogs. Dogs like pig ears.

Number 2: Preserved mudfish fish sauce, from Vietnam.

Reasoning: I'm a fan of fish sauce in general--a tablespoon or two adds a lovely piquant je ne sais quoi to spaghetti sauce, and of course it's a staple in sanitized western-style Thai and Vietnamese cuisine. But this, with its tightly packed filets of clearly aptly named mudfish, intrigued me. In comparison, it made the pigs ears look like a pulled pork sandwich from Everett and Jones.

Verdict: We opened the jar to be mystified by a plastic strainer installed on top of the fish. At first I thought that it might be so that cooks would use the liquid that drained from the fish, not the fish itself. But no, that didn't make sense because only about a tablespoon of liquid dribbled out, and the jar said it contained a whopping 22 servings.

I pried off the plastic strainer, holding my face as far away as possible for fear of flying fermented fish juice. I stuck a fork in and pried up one filet and took a sniff. This was beyond piquant: was this mudfish fermented in a public toilet?

"Please don't make me eat this," Tristan pleaded. "I don't want to be yacking up mudfish."

And mudfish is where we both drew the line. They say smell is an integral part of taste, in which case both of us were surely off the hook.

And now...

Number 1 Scariest Food to be had at Ranch 99:

Pig's Uterus.

Reasoning: Pig's uterus faced some stiff competition from the pre-packaged meat section from the likes of black-skinned chickens with the heads on, pork bung (intestine), pork snout, pork brain, and liquid or solid pork blood, but if my mission was to find the scariest items I could find in Ranch 99, pig's uterus could hardly be overlooked. It lay pinky grey behind the shiny plastic wrap, and I was drawn by its uneven, scalloped, might I even say Baroque tubes.

Verdict: I looked on line for pigs uterus recipes, to no avail, so I decided that maybe stir frying it, with oyster sauce, might work. The oil heated in the wok and I peered at the package. The oil just started to smoke, and I plunged my fingers into the pink labyrinth and dumped it in the oil.

And it began to cook.

And it began to smell.

"Jesus Christ, there is NO WAY, I'm tasting that," Tristan shouted. The smell got worse, perhaps mixing with eau de fermented mudfish. "It smells just the way a cooked [uterus] probably should smell," he cried above the hiss of the oil and the mass of sizzling pink-grey tubes.

It was already unspoken that the uterus was going to bypass oyster sauce and go directly into the trash. I dumped it in and thought, good God, I'm taking that trash out this instant.

But I stupidly waited, thinking I'd wait until the end of this dreadful experiment. And before long, Elizabeth, one of my two cats, was sniffing with determination around the garbage. Bear in mind that she has never shown any interest thus far in either the garbage or anything other than kibble, but apparently pig uterus lightly seared in peanut oil was enough to drive her wild. I slapped her away and went to enjoy the tangy splash of a beer and an escape from the stench in a better-ventilated living room.

And then I heard a rustle from the kitchen and slid back my chair to see Geraldine, my other cat--who has also never been interested in garbage or anything other than kibble--lapping delicately at a chunky string of uterus she'd lugged out of the garbage onto the linoleum.

I'll tell you I have never, ever been so happy to take out the garbage, an everything-must-go excursion that won't even spare the not-so-scary things. It's all ruined, contaminated by association with pig uterus and my own defeat--a girl who likes tuna sandwiches fried with maple syrup on top, foie gras, uni, and lima beans but isn't necessarily an open-minded eater.