Rachael Ray Better Watch Her Back...

I cannot stand Rachael Ray’s voice and pray for the day someone rips her vocal chords out of her chatty little head.  Guy Fieri is just obnoxious, and I find his ridiculous platinum hair and white trash ensembles irritating and offensive.  And let’s not forget Paul Dean’s artery clogging recipes and their ability to make me vomit at just the THOUGHT of consuming that much butter.  Forgoing many of their annoying hosts, I am OBSESSED with the Food Network, and if my journalism endeavors fail, I am betting on my superb culinary skills to provide me with a back-up career.

For most of my life, I considered Dominos, grilled cheeses and chicken fingers a meal of delicacy.  I did not eat vegetables, I would not go within 5 feet of any type of red meat and I would eat a loaf of bread for dinner if I desired.  It’s a complete miracle I didn’t end up insanely obese, and I somehow managed to stay fairly skinny for most of my late teen, early 20’s.  When I finally got my first apartment at the age of 21, it dawned on me that my kitchen set-up was rather sparse.  No pots and pans, other than 1 or 2 for my famous grilled cheeses and instant mashed potatoes, of course.  My microwave got more use then my oven or stove, and I didn’t own a single cookbook.  Amidst the Easy Mac containers and empty beer cans, my place could have easily been mistaken for a frat house rather than a chick’s apartment, had I not had Johnny Depp posters plastered on my walls.

I grew up thinking it was absolutely asinine for women to be expected to be wizards of domestic dishes.  I just didn’t get it.  Who cares if you can whip up a Julia Childs-esqe meal-you spend countless hours slaving over the recipe, and then everyone slobbers it down in 15 minutes.  It’s like elegantly wrapped birthday presents- what’s the point when it’s all ripped to shreds in no time flat?  I can’t remember if my mother ever tried to teach me how to cook, but I’m sure I refused as I tried my hardest to avoid conversingwith her at all when I was a bitchy teenager.  So collaborating on preparing meals with mommy dearest was absolutely out of the question.

But somewhere within the past 2 years my boyfriend turned it all around.  I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but after seeing him cook, enjoying spending time in the kitchen with him and being proud of what he created, made me want the same satisfaction.  I quickly followed in his footsteps and became enthralled with not only cooking complex meals, but opting for healthier versions and making everything completely from scratch.  The gratification that comes alongwith seeing someone go crazy for what you produce is a weird feeling.  To be proud of food definitely felt silly to me in the past, but now the hard work and bonding experience that comes from sharing recipes, talking about our mishaps and experimenting with new things is one of my favorite subjects.  My friends and I have even traded in late night bar hopping for what we call Top Chef Night in which we all get together and whip up a huge feast.  I’m even prone to sending out mass texts of my creations as if I’m showing off ultrasound pics of my first born child.  I get more compliments on my homemade eggplant parmigiana, chicken pot pies and carrot cake then I do on anything else I’ve ever produced, and it feels pretty damn amazing.

If Rachael Ray could shut the hell up for 5 minutes, someone should warn her that I’m ready and willing to take her job.