The food writers and bloggers drive me crazy.

It’s like the White House. They just make stuff up.

They have been beating us with "farm to table" for a while now.

Where was our food coming from before the writers thought of getting it at farms and bringing it to tables? It is a wonder we didn’t all starve.

The writers tout "eat local," and area chefs write fictions at the bottoms of their menus about veggies bought from local farms – in Florida – in August.

Florida grows two things in August - skin cancer and barnacles.

It is too hot for everything else. By the end of April, all the tomato guys have left for Maryland and California. Veggie farmers are all drinking beer and fishing in the Keys.

Food writers proclaim that the best restaurants in the world are now in Scandinavia.

A safe bet. How would we know?

They write that these "world-best" chefs in Denmark and Norway have moved beyond buying or growing - they are now foraging for their food.

Foraging.

Going out to the woods and seashore and digging up tubers and grubs and finding fish that appear miraculously on the beach.

I can see myself foraging for a Beach Bistro preparation.

Strolling along the island beaches – praying for a snapper to jump out at my feet.

But great news, there is another culinary breakthrough at the Bistro.

We are developing an ingenious new food movement.

Better than local and farm to table.

Better than Scandinavian foraged cuisine.

Stolen cuisine.

Think about it. It’s local. It requires more brains and skill and speed than foraging.

And everyone knows that stuff that is stolen tastes better.

Think back to your misspent youth. What tasted better than fruit stolen from your neighbor’s yard or candy pilfered from the department store?

The best thing I ever tasted was cherries that I stole from mean, old Mr McGillicuddy’s tree.

And the excitement.

The best thing about McGillicuddy’s cherries was the thrill of being chased by Constable Kelly through alleys and over fences. Poor Kelly, chunky enough and encumbered with walkie-talkie, flashlight and pistol, was a long shot in neighborhood steeplechase – but he was not a quitter. I can still get lost in the sweet reverie of munching McGillicuddy’s cherries while hiding under dad’s Chevy – spitting pits and watching Kelly’s flat feet wheeze by.

Foraging for bugs in northern woods can’t compete with the daring of sneaking into your neighbors’ yard in the dead of night for oranges, grapefruits and kumquats.

Envisage the action on the food channel. Chefs chasing chickens through yards and running down country roads with little pigs – farmers in hot pursuit.

The TV can be local – Chefs driving scooters around the Publix parking lot swiping stuff from tourists’ grocery carts.

We will have a whole new litany of stolen cuisine menu items – Filched Foie Gras, Purloined Pork Loin, Pilfered Pot Roast.

The possibilities are endless. But, like every other great culinary idea I have ever had, someone will steal it.

Stolen cuisine. You heard it here first.