Well, that's it. All the money's gone. The last of it was spent on a solid-gold golf cart for the president of some New York megabank that regularly sends us nasty letters reminding us to pay off our credit cards. There is officially no more money which, unfortunately, could mean the end of haute cuisine in your life — at least for now.

There was a lot of money to go around once. Many people could afford to do anything they wanted with food, like take a prime cut of steak, cut a tiny triangle out of the middle, place it on top of a looming tower of frizzled Andean blue potato slices, and throw the rest of the meat away. No one was ever full after a meal, but being skinny was also terribly important, so the system worked pretty well.

Eventually, people got tired of being skinny, but they still had money. They also had fond memories of the food their baby boomer parents used to make for them, although they became increasingly snobby about the food itself. No one wanted to eat American cheese or Jell-O or cow tongue anymore — even though they secretly liked the way it tasted. And people were extremely tired of listening to their parents' stories about the Great Depression, like how five children all shared one slice of bologna — for a month. Those stories seemed both annoyingly guilt-inducing and irrelevant, since there was, after all, plenty of money.

And thus began the trend of taking traditional "comfort" foods originally prepared with inexpensive ingredients, and remaking them with the finest exotic foodstuffs Williams-Sonoma could come up with. Macaroni and cheese was baked with prosciutto, fresh semolina pasta and five kinds of raw-milk cheese from Alsace-Lorraine. Meatloaf was back, prepared not with remainder meat, but with a pricey mixture of ground bison, antelope and Norwegian reindeer. Fish sticks were campy and wonderful when made with Chilean sea bass and garnished with sun-dried-tomato paste and caviar.

But now the money is gone, and no one wants to shell out half a week's pay for ostrich burgers anymore. Nor, however, can we just go back to the simpler ways of our parents and grandparents. "You can't take her back to the farm after she's seen New York," as they say. We're spoiled, and we like it that way. So what's a strapped foodie to do?

I propose a solution. We may not be able to eat like kings anymore, but, with a little salt, we can fake it. I propose we turn the gourmet comfort food trend on its head and create, in its place, low-end haute cuisine.

Meatloaf filet mignon

Prepare the meatloaf the way your Depression-era grandmother did, with cheap ground beef and pork; bread crumbs made from day-old bread; ketchup; etc. I'm sure that, somewhere in the bottom of a cedar chest or drawer, you have a yellowing index card with an old recipe scrawled with a shaky hand that will tell you how to turn a quarter pound of old meat into a feast for a family of 10. But, instead of shaping your meat-and-condiments mixture into a lumpy loaf, take the time to craft it into filet mignon-shaped rounds and bake them. It will help the illusion if you can pull off some kind of sauce to cover it with. I suggest more ketchup.

Frozen juice sorbet

Sorbet is basically just frozen juice in a Prada dress. Simply open the canister of frozen juice, put it in the blender for about ten seconds, then dish it into wine glasses. If you want to make it fancier, add some mint or cinnamon or habanero chile powder. Spicy ice cream is all the rage these days. Garnish with a mini beach umbrella.

Spam foie gras

The only real difference between Spam and foie gras is the ingredients. They look more or less the same. To complete the illusion that your "pork product" is fattened goose liver, remove the Spam from its can and blend it vigorously with some, oh, I don't know, mayonnaise or something, to smooth it out. Shape it into a typical foie gras shape, and serve with mini-toasts. And, as a bonus, instead of spending good money on parsley, garnish the plate with a sprig of whatever might be growing behind your house right now. No one eats it anyway.

Jell-O pudding crème brûlée

Everyone loves crème brûlée, but these days the idea of spending $4 on a single vanilla bean pod can leave a bitter taste in the mouths of many Americans. Jell-O pudding looks virtually identical to crème brûlée , and nine out of 10 fifth graders can't tell the difference. Simply prepare the pudding as specified on the package. Pour it into the adorable little ramekins you have left over from when you had money. Sprinkle brown sugar on top, and melt with a mini blowtorch or — if virtually useless kitchen gadgets are no longer in your budget —
a lighter.

Please let me know if any of you would still like to come over for dinner. I will happily walk 12 miles in the snow to the grocery store and carry the ingredients home in a basket. It saves gas.

Contact Tantri Wija at thetwija@gmail.com.