My Planet: Finding Humor in the Oddest Places

TV Dinners

I recently came across a TV show called The Naked Chef. You probably all knew this, but the Naked Chef wears clothes. He is no more naked than the Galloping Gourmet was galloping. He’s just a British guy cooking.

“They call it that because he uses simple, fresh ingredients—the food’s not all gussied up,” said my husband, Ed, settling in beside me on the couch.

“Aha.” I picked up the remote.

Ed grabbed my wrist. “What are you doing? Emeril’s coming up.”

Do you recall the look on Mia Farrow’s face when she peers into the cradle at the end of Rosemary’s Baby? Picture that on me. I was about to learn that my husband, watcher of sports and wearer of tool belt, has been checking out the Food Network—daily. Ed works at a newspaper, where they’re allowed to have TVs so that they can keep abreast of breaking news, such as Martha Stewart visiting an asparagus farm. Lately, his set has been tuned to the Food Network.

We sat in silence as the Naked Chef made monkfish kebabs. He pronounced the last syllable “babs” not “bobs,” and instead of skewers, he was using rosemary sprigs. Adding to the confusion, our chap insisted on giving ingredients in ounces and pints.

“They translate the amounts for you on the recipe you can print out,” Ed reassured me while at the same time alarming me deeply, for this meant that he had been visiting the Food Network website. He went and got a Naked Chef pizza dough recipe. “One pint” had been helpfully converted to “568 milliliters.” It would be simpler to just move to England.

It took the Naked Chef all of three minutes to ready his kebabs. Here is the seductive deceit of cooking shows. The ingredients have all been washed and diced and set aside in a dozen tiny glass bowls. No one is ever shown tidying up afterward and ruining her manicure washing tiny glass bowls. Ed made an amazing roasted chicken and dumpling soup over the holidays, but because Tyler Florence appeared to make it in 20 minutes, Ed miscalculated, and we ended up eating shortly before midnight. The cleanup brigade is still at it.

I explained this to Ed while the commercials were on. A woman was demonstrating a coffee mug with a built-in blender at the bottom to froth milk so you don’t have to buy a milk steamer, but you have to drink out of a blender.

Ed tried to make the point that the shows aren’t just educational, they’re entertaining. Unfortunately for him, the network was at that moment broadcasting a segment about whipped dessert-topping strategies. A woman was crowning a piece of pie with a “rippled dollop.”

“There is no dark side to this dollop,” said the woman, and you couldn’t argue with her there.

Emeril was on next. Emeril Live is one of the Food Network’s most popular shows. It’s based on the daytime talk-show format: a sound stage, an excitable studio audience—even a house band. But in place of witty, attractive celebrities and a funny monologue, you get a middle-aged man cooking.

Today Emeril had taken the camera backstage for a tour of his pantry: “Over here we got the snail dishes, the ramekins, the bread pudding cups.” Ed and I recently videotaped the contents of our home for insurance purposes. The tape features Ed narrating as the camera pans from one closet shelf to the next: “Extra pillows, place mats. This is a sewing machine…” I’m thinking we could use this tape to launch our own entertainment network: the Storage Channel.

Setting aside the issue of whether these shows are entertaining, I raised one final point. The irony, the dark side to this dollop, is that with people watching Emeril three times a day, no one’s got time to cook. To prove me wrong, Ed made Food Network crab cakes and broccoli rabe with anchovies. He made them fast, and he made them amazing. I am eating humble pie, only this time I know how to top it in an attractive and professional-looking manner.