|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
here I was, sitting in front of the TV, eating a salad I painstakingly prepared for myself from the massive salad bar at Whole Foods — my secret ingredient? Egyptian Bean Snacks slathered in a little E.V.O.O. (Extra Virgin Olive Oil). Soooo crunchy and full of flavor! Mmm — and talking on the phone to an old friend, when I realized I had become my worst enemy. It happened right around the time I used the phrase "my boyfriend and I" for the third sentence in a row. On the other end of the line my friend seemed bored. "Mm-hmm . . . " she sighed. I was catching her up on a new relationship — my first real one in a while — and I sounded desperate for attention, enthusiastic, giddy, even. Basically, I didn't sound like myself (usually calm, sarcastic, cool, even). But I knew right away who I was subconsciously imitating, and that realization made me shudder. Really, it was beyond frightening.
"Oh God," I thought, "I sound like Rachael fucking Ray."
In retrospect, maybe I wasn't quite that bad. I mean, I didn't use the phrase "my sweetie and I," right? I wasn't chuckling and babbling on about the oh-so-zany way my boyfriend likes to season his turkey burger. And I'd never, ever force him to take me ice skating in Rockefeller Center and then to split a frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity, gushing the entire time about how "romantic" the whole thing is. I'm not that annoying . . . or insipid . . . or lame. But, still, I was closer
than I had ever been before, and that brush with Rachel Ray-dom made me re-evaluate a lot of things. Okay, just one thing. Namely, where was my Food Network fixation leading me?
Allow me to backtrack a little. Ok, a lot. I've been into TV cooking shows ever since I was eleven years old, when I stumbled across a show called Biba's Italian Kitchen on the local PBS station one afternoon after school. Biba was an old Italian grandma who made vaguely Tuscan fare, lots of bean soups and hearty sauces. She was also an alcoholic, and therefore extremely fun to watch. At the beginning of
almost every show, Biba would open a bottle of wine, pour half of it in a glass next to the stove, and gulp it down throughout the half-hour, pausing for the occasional refill. She would cook, too, but nothing would ever turn out the way she wanted, which is what usually happens when you're making lasagna totally drunk. My friends and I were spectacular losers, so we spent a stupidly large amount of time speculating about Biba's home life: her probably unhappy marriage to the husband she mentioned on air a few times, her possibly ungrateful children, her obvious homesickness for Italy. In short: it was a good time, and pretty soon I sought out other cooking shows to whet my appetite.
Hands are dirtied, tongues are relaxed, and, pretty soon personal lives and secrets are revealed. |
Cooking on television has been called "food porn" from the beginning — ever since Graham Kerr, The Galloping Gourmet, massaged a glistening roast capon while intoning, "You can tell when it's ready by poking it with your finger." Not surprisingly, considering all the from-the-oven-to-the-counter "money shots," the food itself is usually taken to be the porn star — the thing that makes stomachs rumble, eyes glaze over and mouths drool. Hungry viewers tune in to get their fill.
As for me, I've never been that interested in the food itself. I don't cook, I don't bake and while I love eating food, I've never really felt an aching desire to watch it being prepared on television. To
me, the TV chefs are the main draw of cooking shows, not because I feel anything aching about them, either, but because there's something intimate about watching someone cook. Hands are dirtied, tongues are relaxed, and, pretty soon personal lives and secrets are revealed. You feel like you're learning about the person as you're learning about how to make a roux (equal parts butter and flour, constant heat and stirring). It's like watching a very slow-paced soap opera, complete with lessons on how to chop.
Which brings me back to Rachael Ray. As she's quick to admit, Ray isn't a chef. In fact, she uses so many pre-packaged items — from store-bought pizza crusts to pre-shredded cheeses to canned vegetables — she's barely a cook. But Ray currently has four shows on Food Network, making her virtually unavoidable to even the casual viewer — 30-Minute-Meals, in which Ray "cooks" an entire meal in a half-hour; $40-A-Day, in which Ray travels from city to city gorging on cheap eats; and Rachael Ray's Tasty Travels, which, Food Network swears, is totally different than $40-A-Day. Ray also hosts Inside Dish, a show that could more accurately be called D-List-Celebrity Slobberfest With Rachael Ray. If you want to visit music-video-director Brett Ratner's favorite restaurant, or see what Raven Symone likes to cook up for
Sunday dinner, this is your show.
All four shows are tied together by Ray's non-stop giggling, her over-enthusiastic tasting, and her nearly constant talking — most of it about her relationships, or lack thereof. When I first started watching 30-Minute-Meals, Ray
I don't hate Rachael Ray. Well, not as much as I could, anyway. |
was apparently single, and judging by the way she would repeatedly suggest "you could make this dish for your honey, if ya got one!" she was pretty unhappy. Then, Ray started dating "someone special," and proceeded to talk endlessly about the things she would prepare for him. Last year, Ray got married, a fact she gushed about on all of her shows, and soon her husband was joining her on certain $40-A-Day trips, holding her hand, and generally making everyone (besides Rachael, whose Joker-esque smile was even wider than before) feel nauseous.
I don't hate Rachael Ray. Well, not as much as I could, anyway. In fact, I like watching her shows almost as much as I liked watching Biba's. It's fun to see her make hokey meals (like Uptown Down-Home Chili), and brag about her "sweetie," while wondering what she's really like at home (I suspect she's harboring some serious hidden anger . . . she has to be).
Actually, I'm kind of grateful to her for showing me how not to act when you're a single woman who's just coupled up. It's annoying, and kind of pathetic, to constantly talk about your new boyfriend — though it does make for riveting television. Otherwise, it's best to keep your relationship to yourself: Just shut up and eat.
n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
 |
Amelie Gillette is a staff writer
for The A.V. Club, The Onion's semi-serious entertainment section. Read more
of her thoughts on high/low culture at avclub.com. She lives in
Brooklyn. |
©2006 Amelie Gillette and Nerve.com.
|
|
|
|
|
, featuring curious yet marvelous infusions of cucumber and rose petal.
