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I watch Emeril. OK, mostly because the six year old likes him, but honestly, I could get the remote away from the three-and-a-half-foot-tall person if I needed to.
We have favorite episodes of the Iron Chef. We gather around the TV to dis Chairman Kaga's outfits. We've given the hosts nicknames (Bobby "I can too make creme brulee on a kettle grill, I just like the one with the thermostat and the fish smoker" Flay). We do MST3K-style commentaries on the shows (Hey, you know what this blancmange needs? A handful of generic blackening spices and some rendered lard! BAM!) I try to calculate the calories in classic Galloping Gourmet Episodes (wow, he didn't drain the hamburger or the sausage and he's putting cheese on top...oh my god, is that lace fat?).
Naturally I would argue that this is far more interesting than bass fishing, but I would be hardpressed to give you a really good reason why. Every so often I catch my husband looking at me sideways when I get all exercised about some cooking technique that's clearly All Wrong with all the pointless fierceness I used to pour out on David Brinkley before Cokie turned into a wall-eyed cross between Dr Laura and Sally Quinn and I had to stop watching (mmmm, Iron Chef - Blue Dog Battle).
At those moments when I find myself watching the third rerun of Iron Chef: [something I would probably eat if I was starving to death] Battle (and let's be right up front about this: that 'bitter taste from the intestines' they kept talking about that Westerners don't understand in the Little Whole Fish Battle is fish shit. I don't have a problem with it being fish shit, it's absolutely none of my business that it's fish shit and to each his own gout in matters relating to prefilled fish intestines and all that stuff, I'm just saying: it's fish shit) and I think, there has to be more to it than actual interest.
I'm probably training up a little foodie. She's certainly all about the EasyBake Oven, and a ninja chopper of any vegetable that can be cut with a serrated butter knife. She's a good turner of the crank on the meat grinder if we're making hummous, and doesn't eat more than half of the red bell peppers if she can get her hands on them.
The Food Network is fairly safe for six year olds, which is part of the allure for me. I know I'm not going to see anything that's going be hard to explain, or even commercials for anything I don't want to get into. They're just not marketing to her, and they seem to realize noone really wants to think about feminine hygiene while they're eating.
It's safe for me too, which may be why, finally, I end up watching it so much. No politics. No current events. Noone I've seen in the news, except possibly Elmo. Everything's clean, everything's well organized, everyone has a kitchen full of prepcooks back there somewhere and there's a room full of people to applaud frantically at people who make a really slick move in the kitchen.
It's not the same as watching bass fishing - it's my personal version of the Spice Channel. Food porn, hermetically detached from real life, for people with culinary exhibitionist fantasies. And the crowd goes wild.
We have favorite episodes of the Iron Chef. We gather around the TV to dis Chairman Kaga's outfits. We've given the hosts nicknames (Bobby "I can too make creme brulee on a kettle grill, I just like the one with the thermostat and the fish smoker" Flay). We do MST3K-style commentaries on the shows (Hey, you know what this blancmange needs? A handful of generic blackening spices and some rendered lard! BAM!) I try to calculate the calories in classic Galloping Gourmet Episodes (wow, he didn't drain the hamburger or the sausage and he's putting cheese on top...oh my god, is that lace fat?).
Naturally I would argue that this is far more interesting than bass fishing, but I would be hardpressed to give you a really good reason why. Every so often I catch my husband looking at me sideways when I get all exercised about some cooking technique that's clearly All Wrong with all the pointless fierceness I used to pour out on David Brinkley before Cokie turned into a wall-eyed cross between Dr Laura and Sally Quinn and I had to stop watching (mmmm, Iron Chef - Blue Dog Battle).
At those moments when I find myself watching the third rerun of Iron Chef: [something I would probably eat if I was starving to death] Battle (and let's be right up front about this: that 'bitter taste from the intestines' they kept talking about that Westerners don't understand in the Little Whole Fish Battle is fish shit. I don't have a problem with it being fish shit, it's absolutely none of my business that it's fish shit and to each his own gout in matters relating to prefilled fish intestines and all that stuff, I'm just saying: it's fish shit) and I think, there has to be more to it than actual interest.
I'm probably training up a little foodie. She's certainly all about the EasyBake Oven, and a ninja chopper of any vegetable that can be cut with a serrated butter knife. She's a good turner of the crank on the meat grinder if we're making hummous, and doesn't eat more than half of the red bell peppers if she can get her hands on them.
The Food Network is fairly safe for six year olds, which is part of the allure for me. I know I'm not going to see anything that's going be hard to explain, or even commercials for anything I don't want to get into. They're just not marketing to her, and they seem to realize noone really wants to think about feminine hygiene while they're eating.
It's safe for me too, which may be why, finally, I end up watching it so much. No politics. No current events. Noone I've seen in the news, except possibly Elmo. Everything's clean, everything's well organized, everyone has a kitchen full of prepcooks back there somewhere and there's a room full of people to applaud frantically at people who make a really slick move in the kitchen.
It's not the same as watching bass fishing - it's my personal version of the Spice Channel. Food porn, hermetically detached from real life, for people with culinary exhibitionist fantasies. And the crowd goes wild.
