For two people who don’t watch television, Sam and I have been watching an awful lot of television. With the exception of football (not the American kind) and tennis and the soon-to-be Tour de France, most of what we watch could be considered shite. But one show we stumbled upon and that has completely enthralled us, is “Master Chef,” a cooking contest between everyday people, hosted by an etched and fidgety little dude named Gordon Ramsay.
Apparently he’s big in the cooking world. Or, at least, he’s a behemoth in the television cooking world, because every other show seems to feature him yelling or gagging or throwing plates or being generally disgusted with the food he’s being served and/or the people making it. He moves his body through space like a hungry hyena. The way he cuts a piece of meat is demonic. He’s unsettling.
See what I mean? Dude’s not right. Still. I can’t. Stop. Watching.
But this entire post is one giant regression. What I really wanted to say is that, after watching a number of episodes of “Master Chef” and seeing these hobbyist cooks make dishes on the fly (people! Some chick made a flourless coffee-chocolate cake WITHOUT A GODDAMNED RECIPE last night!), I decided that I, too, could cook without measuring spoons.
During a commercial break, I went to the kitchen, where I layered some tortilla chips on a plate, dusted them with several handfuls of a Mexican Four Cheese Blend, and nuked them until they were blisteringly hot and snapping oil all over the inside of the microwave. Then I spooned on some Tostitos Chunky Salsa (medium heat) and served them to my husband, urging him to eat up before they cooled and resembled wet cardboard.
We ate my dish while watching Ramsay spit out a bite of cakey-flanish sort of stuff made with forty-seven layers of filo dough. And I felt righteously superior to the pompous kid who’d made it. And not because he looks exactly like my first serious boyfriend from high school, who ditched me one hour before his senior prom so he could go with his other girlfriend, that I didn’t know he had. A guy who is now a used car salesman. Not that it’s relevant. I’m just saying. None of this is why I felt awesome about my on-a-whim delicacy.
No, I felt awesome because my nachos were definitely better than whatever fetid substance Chef Ramsay had ejected from his mouth with the velocity of a Heimlich maneuver recipient. I could probably be on that show…