Next Food Network Star: The Season 9 Recap Rant

You all know how much I love Food Network.  You’re also likely aware how little I hesitate to call them on their shit when I see it.  And as the finale of the latest season of Next Food Network Star approaches, I find myself with plenty of shit to call.

The format of this season of NFNS was scattered at best.  The “mentors” seemed less like mentors and more like judge, jury, and executioner.  I’m sure plenty went on behind the scenes to which I’m not privy, but near as I could tell, they were not grooming stars.  They were throwing into an ocean of options a bunch of people who want to be stars, and seeing how well they could float.

Example: You claim you want food authorities.  Yet people continually referenced notorious alien crime boss Mars Capone when listing ingredients, and no one said a word to correct them.  Allow me to restate that, to make sure you really get it: GIADA FUCKING DE LAURENTIIS stood there and let numerous people mispronounce “mascarpone” on multiple occasions, and never uttered a peep.  That is not mentoring.  I don’t even let my friends get away with that crap.

Oh, on a side note: I know the ratings game necessitates you have your villain in every season, but there are limits.  I find it damn near impossible to believe that anyone is as unmitigatedly cuntish as your careful editing made Danushka Lysek appear, but your presentation of her brought me very close to not watching the show.  Just something to keep in mind when you’re picking out a bad guy next year.

But I digress.  And now, after a season of floundering, flopping, and fuckuppery, much of which seems like it could have been avoided with a bit more guidance from the experts present, it is down to the final 3 contestants and show ideas.

The Final Three: Damaris, Rodney, and Russell

Russell Jackson: Guilty Pleasures

Before I say another word, let me say this; when this NFNS season opened, I was all about Russell.  Seriously.  All.  About.  Russell.  I would have stuck forks in the face of anyone who dared speak a word against him.  I liked his message, I liked his style, I thought that with a bit of coaching he could work through his on-camera awkwardness and go on to great things.  ‘Great things’ in this case being, making a show I would watch.  Then, his message started getting a little mixed, and then a little more, and in his attempts to distill it into something marketable, he lost the part that appealed to me most strongly; the part where he would show us fun decadent sexy food styles that we could re-create in our own kitchens.

His pitch opened with “I go to other people’s restaurants and...”  Red flag, but I was willing to give him the benefit of every possible doubt.  Then I saw his pilot.  He did indeed go to someone else’s restaurant, and tried one of their products, and had wonderful things to say about it.  Okay, you’ve advertised for someone, now show me something I can use.  So he borrowed that restaurant’s kitchen to make his Bacon Bourbon Ice Cream.  I like alcohol and pork products, I can get behind this.

Except.  He is going along, step by step through the process so we can follow, and BLAM!  Straight into the brick wall of liquid nitrogen we run.  Here’s the thing, most home cooks don’t have large tanks of liquid nitrogen in their kitchens.  I know.  I’ve asked for one, many times.  So there’s really no point in explaining your process in detail if you’re just going to have a pretty significant step that I can’t copy.  He then gives the finished ice cream to the restaurant owner and asks if it’s something they might someday consider putting on their menu, and is told yes, that could maybe happen. 

At the end of the show, I’ve seen one product I can’t try because I don’t live where the host restaurant is located, and one product that I can’t buy anywhere yet and can’t make at home because it requires a piece of equipment that I SWEAR TO YOU, MAN OF MINE, WILL HAPPEN SOMEDAY but I do not currently possess.  I’ve watched you do fun stuff, but gleaned nothing useful.  If I want flashy improbable scenarios with a side of sexy, I’ve already got Rex Linn in CSI: Miami reruns

WOULD I WATCH RUSSELL: Yes

WOULD I WATCH THIS SHOW: Heartbreakingly, no

Rodney Henry: Pie Style

Of the three finalists, Rodney is, in my opinion, the one who would have benefitted most from a firm hand to help rein in his all-over-the-map exuberance and channel his natural energy and charisma.  Because he is fun to watch, but “overly focused” is not something I think any teacher ever had to write on his report card.  After spending the entire season with him, the only conclusion I can reach is that the definition of “pie style” is “whatever the hell I feel like doing, because I’m the one doing it, and I wear cool hats.”  Unfortunately, this is not the kind of conclusion that compels me to watch any show.

Don’t get me wrong.  I like Rodney.  There is no doubt in my mind that going out drinking with Rodney is one of the coolest and most anecdote-producing experiences any human being could hope to have.  I’d love to meet the guy.  But that’s not the same as wanting to watch the guy on TV.

His pitch also opened with “I go to other people’s restaurants and...” which is, as previously stated, a huge red flag for me.  But the basic premise, that he goes to other people’s restaurants to taste their signature dishes and turn those dishes into pies, translates far better to a home cook than Russell’s “I go to other people’s restaurants and borrow their kitchens because I can” platform.  I like turning things into other things, and when the other thing is pie, so much the better because you can make two with very little extra work and freeze one for later.

So Rodney is given a dish, a grilled cheese sandwich with all sorts of yumtastic stuff in it, and he turns it into a pie.  The translation from one to the other is pretty literal, a bit more of a personal twist would have been nice, but the personal twist is “it’s now a pie” so I can let that go.  Am I ever likely to turn my grilled cheese sandwiches into pies?  Not really.  But there were a few things he did that made me think.  Like, the original sandwich had nuts and raisins in the bread, so Rodney put nuts and raisins in his pie crust.  Which made me think “hey, I bet adding some golden raisins to the crust next time I bake an apple pie would be really good.”  So, kudos to Rodney for giving me an idea I wouldn’t have had otherwise.  This is why I watch Food Network.

But before I got that idea, and fighting to drive it from my head after it was got, is the loud, extremely boisterous, at times downright manic presence of Rodney himself.  He is absolutely an entertainer, and an awesome one at that.  What makes him difficult to accept as a teacher is how exhausting it can be to pick the useful information out of his presentation.

WOULD I WATCH RODNEY: Yes, but only in small doses

WOULD I WATCH THIS SHOW: Yes.  Because it’s pie, which has been scientifically proven superior to all other foods

Damaris Phillips: Eat Date Love

I am actually surprised that Damaris made it as far in the competition as she did, but in that “please please PLEASE you can do it just hang on you can DO THIS” weekly internalized prayer meeting kind of way, rather than that “what the hell is she even doing here?” kind of way.  I wanted Damaris to grow and develop and focus and hone her natural charm and awkwardness into something that would force the FN execs to see just how marketable she really is, and that happened.  And it made me happy.

Her pitch was “I’ll teach guys how to cook so they can impress women”.  Right there, she is ahead of Russell and Rodney because of two little words: I’ll teach.  I don’t recall hearing anything about teaching in either of the boys’ presentations.

And as someone who, while in the throes of the worst flu this side of bubonic plague, was once told by her well-meaning and always supportive guy, “I can make you anything you want for dinner, as long as you want bacon and eggs”, this idea of teaching guys how to cook specifically for their women struck a spectacularly melodic personal chord.

So, we have a show I can get behind completely, hosted by a woman I find almost ridiculously adorable.  Aside from her imparting useful information, I know there will be that moment in every episode when she puts her foot in her mouth, backtracks to try to cover whatever awkward thing she just said, makes it even worse in the process, and is laughing right along with us at her own slightly risqué clumsiness.  Half the fun of watching the show will be waiting for that to happen.

And there will be sweet potatoes.  Oh yes.  There will be sweet potatoes.

WOULD I WATCH DAMARIS: Yes

WOULD I WATCH THIS SHOW: Yes

There it was.  After careful evaluation of not only the personalities but the shows themselves, I am brought to the conclusion that there is only one place my vote can go, and that is to Damaris.  Russell, Rodney, please forgive me.

So off I went to cast my vote.

Except, in order to vote, I have a choice between giving Food Network a piece of information that is none of their damn business, or giving them other information that is even less of their damn business.  Yes, I can only vote by letting them know my phone number, or giving them access to my Facebook profile.  Neither of those things is going to happen, so I ended up not voting.

Congratulations, Food Network.  I thought you dropped the NFNS ball with your handling of Justin Warner.  Turns out you were just getting started.

Before You Go On the Food Network…

Before you go on any Food Network program, it would serve you well to learn how to properly pronounce some commonly-used words in the culinary field.  While you’re at it, you could have a go at learning to pronounce “culinary” as well, but I’ve given up holding my breath on that one. 

However, there are some things I’m not quite ready to give up the fight on yet.  And I am really fucking tired of hearing so-called culinary “experts” constantly mispronounce the following:

Mascarpone – There are days when I swear if I hear one more person say “MARZ-ka-pone”, I will just douse my television in truffle oil, set it on fire and throw it out of a ninth-floor window.  It is pronounced “mas-kar-PO-nay”.  Why is this so difficult?  Why do I hear twelve people pronounce this incorrectly for every one that gets it right?  If you need a helpful hint, LOOK AT WHERE THE ‘R’ IS IN THE WORD.  Last time I checked, rules of Italian pronunciation did not include “if ‘r’ follows the second vowel, it should be sounded before the preceding two consonants”.  Those rules do, however, include pronouncing all vowels.  I know it’s not always easy for an English-trained brain to see an ‘e’ at the end of a word and think it’s there for anything other than garnish, but in Italian, there are no silent letters.  So say your ‘nay’.

Chipotle – If Jack-in-the-Box commercials can get this right, all you fine dining experts have no excuse.  It’s “cheh-POHT-lay”.  Not “chee-POL-tee” or “cheh-POL-tay”.  Again, a none-too-subtle hint, LOOK AT WHERE THE ‘T’ IS IN THE WORD.

Mozzarella – The most common, and to me least understandable, mispronunciation of this word is people simply forgetting that it ends with an ‘a’.  Was the final number at that concert you went to the other night performed a capell?  Is that bone in your knee a patell?  When it looks like rain, do you grab your umbrell?  Do you cringe every time your toddler insists yet again on watching her DVD of Cinderell?  Then why do you think you’re cooking with mozzarell?

Quinoa – I’m willing to cut people a bit more slack on this one just because it is kind of odd looking to an English-trained brain; however, it’s still not that difficult.  It’s pronounced “keen-wah”, slight emphasis on the first syllable.  I won’t throw a flaming truffle oil-soaked television at you if you don’t get it right all the time, but please at least make the effort.

How I Bear the Shame of Total Crap Cooking

Dear Food Television Personalities,

I have a horrifying confession of horribly horrible horror that I simply cannot keep to myself a moment longer. The horror is too great for one woman to bear alone.

The horror.

Please make sure there are no young and easily frightened children standing behind you before you scroll down to read this next statement. I won’t have that on my conscience along with everything else. I can’t.

Because what I have to tell you is... I own and use white truffle oil.

For the longest time, I was under the unforgivably foolish impression that it was just an ingredient. Granted, its liquid state combined with a transparent and decidedly non-fungal appearance had led me to suspect it was not a real truffle, but I was all right with that. Of course, I was also under the impression that it is okay to cook with and eat things for no better reason than you like the way they taste. Little did I know

and I should just count myself damned lucky that I have any friends left.

Apparently, what makes white truffle oil the abomination that it is in the eyes of all who stand for right and good and have any shred of common decency is, according to one well-known food television personality, the fact that “truffle oils are made by perfumists that have no white truffles in them”. Before I read that, it had never even occurred to me to question whether or not my perfumists might have truffles in them. I just didn’t realize it mattered what the people making my oils might have had for lunch.

But once I started questioning things, I found I couldn’t stop.

If white truffle oil is not the same as actual truffles, what other things might not be the same as other things?

Through exhaustive research, I uncovered the astounding fact that candy canes and fresh mint leaves are not the same thing. It explained a great deal about why my herbal infusions tended to be so crunchy and oversweet, but sadly I will now have to find other ways to grow my own Christmas tree ornaments.

Russet potatoes and Creamy Mash are also not the same thing. Thankfully, with this knowledge in my possession I can count on my chips and dip being considerably less indistinguishable from one another the next time I’m invited to a potluck. If there is a next time. I can only hope.

And slowly, as I waded deeper into these terrifying yet irrefutable truths, the real question began to form in my mind, the answer to which might forever change the everything of everything that I ever do with food ever again.

Are all things... perhaps... not other things?

I closed my eyes and mind as quickly and tightly as I could, but no amount of refusal to see would change the truth I could now never un-know. Things are, in fact, not other things. Things are what they are.

Damn.

I’m not sure how I will proceed from this point, or what I will do with this case of Jell-O instant pudding that I had such high hopes of using in place of Tahitian vanilla beans. It will be a relief to no longer feel compelled to store my containers of white truffle oil in the calcareous soil at the base of my neighbor’s oak tree, since clearly that was never doing any of the good I thought it might anyway. Beyond that, I just don’t know. But if knowing is half the battle, not knowing must be the other half, so perhaps all hope for me is not yet lost.

I really don’t know how to thank you.

Sincerely,
An Avid Home Cook Who Has Never Poisoned Anyone Accidentally

Guys I Would Not Instantly Not Leave My Guy For

There are moments in our household when I have occasion to say “You should be aware that if Suchandsuch McSoandso were to ever show up on our doorstep and ask me to run away with him, I would pause a moment before I said no”. Because I’m honest like that. And, contrariwise, I know if Cameron Diaz were to ever show up on our doorstep with a similar question, I would see The Guy do some pausing of his own. Fair’s fair.

So now that you know who my real competition is, I present to you...

The Guys I Would Not Instantly Not Leave My Guy For

The Blecha Brothers, Jake & Justin

(aka “the totally hot plaid-wearing bearded carpenters from Cupcake Wars”)

 

If you watch Cupcake Wars, you already know what I’m talking about. If not, allow me to elucidate. The final battle of the cupcake war requires each contestant to design a display that is thematically relevant, stylish, and able to hold a thousand cupcakes. In two hours. That’s where Jake and Justin come in. Using hastily scribbled outlines of grandiose concepts from the minds of bakers whose understanding of carpentry seems at times barely equal to the task of building a rectangle out of squares, Jake and Justin build miracles. Ever encouraging and optimistic in the face of even the most unreasonable of requests, they listen patiently to what people say they want, glean from it the truth of what people really want, take that truth to the place where what you want meets what you can have, and not only make if happen but make it happen in time for the paint to dry. In two hours.

This is like the workshop equivalent of a guy asking you what’s wrong, you saying “nothing”, and him figuring out on his own what is actually wrong, saying all the right things without being prompted, repeatedly refilling your wineglass without being asked, stenciling Hello Kitty graphics on your bathroom walls to cheer you up, doing the dishes, picking up the dry cleaning, feeding the cat, screening calls from your mother and bringing you Chinese food, all the while reassuring you that absolutely nothing about anything in your life is making your ass look fat. And all the while continuing to wear plaid, have a beard, and be totally hot.

In two hours.

David Caruso

It speaks to not only the uniqueness but magnitude of his charisma that I am willing to continually overlook the forensic absurdities, forced dialogue, inexplicable insistence on the use of 5 SUVs to transport 6 people from a single office to a single crime scene, blatant emotional manipulation, complete disregard for the basics of investigative procedure, and fantastically over-engineered technical displays that are CSI: Miami, for the simple pleasure of seeing David Caruso for an hour.

Even if most of that hour is spent watching him peer cryptically through his sunglasses in darkened rooms only to remove said sunglasses when going outdoors to better convey, as only squinting cryptically in full sunlight can, what it is to be Horatio Caine, just a man, one man doing what little one man can against all the evil that Miami can spew, it is an hour well spent.

Actually, because of that it’s an hour well spent. Because he is David Caruso, and no matter what he does, he will be David Caruso doing it, and that will make whatever it is instantly and vastly superior to anyone else’s feeble attempt at performing the same action.

And like Miss Turkey’s bikini and The Rembrandts’ oft pined-for lost love, that’s just the way it is.

San Jose Sharks Goaltender Antti Niemi

Do I even need to explain the appeal of a large man who spends his work hours carrying a stick and determinedly deflecting dense objects hurled across slick surfaces at dangerously high speeds by other equally large stick-carrying men while thousands of people scream in the background?

Okay, I will. The appeal is, your worst day has nothing on that. Some guys get pissy if you so much as snap at them to get their feet off the coffee table and stop leaving their boxers on the bathroom floor. A guy like Niemi? Your most banshee-like rants are cool waters burbling softly over age-smoothed rocks on tree-lined banks in a land that time forgot compared to what he just came from. He doesn’t need 40 pounds of gear to protect himself from stories of how much you hate Sheila in HR. You could throw a blender at his face and he’d just bat it away without even looking up from his video game.

“But”, the quibblers among you may protest, “surely you could say the same about many NHL goaltenders?”

Perhaps I could. But I do not, for two reasons. First, I am a San Jose girl loyal to my local boys. And second, Antti Niemi has a really really cute nose.



And the guy I would have to pause the longest before refusing to run away with should he ever ask...

Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto

“Because he’s frikkin’ Morimoto.” –Alton Brown, in response to having witnessed yet another feat of unmitigated awesomeness on 'Iron Chef America'

There’s really not much I can say that Alton Brown hasn’t already summed up in that single quote. Masaharu Morimoto is, quite simply, cooler than most human beings realize it is even possible to be, much less stand a chance of ever being.

Give him a jar of Skippy, some Smuckers and a loaf of Bimbo Pan Blanco, he can make a five-course meal out of them before you can even finish making a sandwich, even if you don’t bother taking the time to cut the crust off.

He looks better breaking kitchen equipment than the rest of us do when using it properly.

Oh, and he can sing, too.

Yeah, Alton. What you said.

Dear Food Network Contestants...

Dear Food Network Contestants,

Contrary to the old axiom, there really is such a thing as bad publicity. The producers may not have explained this to you, but when you appear on programs like Cupcake Wars, Chopped, and Challenge, they tell people your name and the name of the establishment you represent. If you have a substantial private income, complete lack of regard for the opinions of others, and really only cook professionally for funsies, please feel free to stop reading here.

If not, please note that when you appear on national television and behave like a complete bitch/jackass/whiner/pretentious niche market detail-dropping whore/shit-talking back-stabbing unjustifiably cocky bastard with zero concern for health and safety issues, etc., people like me notice. When we notice, not only do we gift you with unflattering monikers such as ‘Bitchcake Von TwatWhistler’, ‘Douchewit McDouchington’ and ‘That Boston Skank’, we also remember your real name, your face, and the restaurant you work for. And add that restaurant to the list of places we will never ever go. And then tell our friends. Who may well in turn tell their friends. And so on.

Just something to think about.

Another thing you might want to think about; deliberately antagonizing Kerry Vincent is seldom a good idea. In fact, I can’t imagine the circumstance under which that would be a good idea. So let me amend that statement to read, deliberately antagonizing Kerry Vincent is NEVER a good idea. It will earn you nothing but an opportunity to look foolish.

And finally, when you don’t win a competition, please do not walk away saying that your loss was due to the fact that the judges didn’t “get” what you were doing. If they really didn’t “get” it, it isn’t because they’re stupid, uncreative and narrow-minded; rather, it’s very likely because not all of what went on in your head made it to the plate. But most of the time, they did indeed “get” it, it just might not have been as good as you thought it was. The ability to accept this gracefully, glean the constructive tidbits from the judge’s critiques, and apply that experience to future endeavors all add up to the state most commonly referred to as “having a pair”, the achievement of which will serve you well both in and out of the kitchen for years to come.

Sincerely,
A Viewer

The Lucky Spatula & Other Reasons I’ll Never be on ‘Worst Cooks In America’

Once upon a time in the early 60’s, my mother bought a set of Ecko utensils. They looked like this

and some of them are still alive today, proudly carrying on in my mother’s current kitchen, reminders of simpler times and other kitchens, having survived not only the 60’s but the learning to cook of more than a few children, myself included. The spatula, sadly, has passed on to wherever it may be that loyal kitchen tools go, but surprisingly recently. As in, about 6 months ago, when it was over 40 years old. But it will live on, in my memory and in the memories of my mother and siblings, forever as the Lucky Spatula.

As you may gather from the photo, this Ecko utensil set was stainless steel with black plastic handles. But not just any plastic; 1960’s plastic. And they don’t make plastic like that anymore. They don’t have to. Most of the original stuff is still around. The 60’s did not fuck around with any tree-hugging biodegradable-in-your-lifetime green-going plastic. They built their plastic to last, and saved their greenness and tree hugging for where it would be best appreciated; in meadows, where there were trees.

But even the most hardcore and determined of plastics can fall prey to the striking of a handle against an unyielding surface at precisely the wrong angle, and such was the fate of the Lucky Spatula. At some point in the early 70’s, its majestic black plastic beauty was reduced to a mere nub, with a stainless steel rectangular protrusion to remind us of its former glory.

So naturally, I thought it was fantastic. A spatula with an actual kid-sized handle. The best thing that could happen to an eight-year-old learning to cook.

Now, before I go any further, I should probably explain something. This was me around the time I was learning to cook

and needless to say, the burden of rampant popularity amongst my peers wasn’t something with which I fought a daily battle. Yes, I was a nerd. I loved to read. Anything I could get my hands on. So imagine the mental process tripped by the reading of the following statement

“IF YOU CAN READ, YOU CAN COOK”

in the introduction of this 1973 classic:

Well then, I could cook. At that point, it was just a matter of proving it. And prove it I did, with the Lucky Spatula at my side all the while, like some kind of mass-produced culinary Jesus; long before I was even old enough to understand that peanut butter & jelly sandwiches were assembled and not born, it had been sacrificed for my kitchen sins, and I had only to forgive myself. Just knowing that I was using a tool that was already broken gifted me with a freedom that, looking back, I may not have ever learned to cook without. After all, what was I going to do, break something?

Flash forward past ragingly successful scrambled eggs, French toast from my father’s recipe (the one thing even my mom admits that my dad makes better than anyone in the world), a really questionable attempt at chicken a l’orange, and a pink thing that was supposed to be sugared popcorn, and I found myself viewing the trials and tribulations of Chefs Anne Burrell and Robert Irvine as they attempted to coax edible foodstuffs from a group of individuals dubbed the Worst Cooks in America.

(On a side note, I totally called Joshie to win when there were still 8 recruits in the running. I know passion for food when I see it)

And while I was by turns amused and enthralled by the journey of these individuals, and never shy about cheering them on in their endeavors, beneath it all was an emotion I didn’t identify until the third or fourth episode of the show I watched.

Then I realized what it was. I was a little sad. Sad for complete strangers that I have never and likely will never meet, sad that they had never known the liberation of the Lucky Spatula, or whatever in their lives would have been its equivalent; sad that not everyone finds the thing that gives them the freedom to fail in the kitchen, and consequently the freedom to try again, as many times as it takes, sad that they had never known the joy of learning to cook at a young age, and had that skill to carry with them throughout the rest of their lives.

Sad, and at the same time grateful. Grateful that I had a mother who was frugal enough to hang onto a spatula with a broken handle, and realistic enough to understand that her kids needed to really screw things up in the kitchen before they would ever get them right.

Or maybe that’s why she kept it. By the time I was old enough to reach the stove, the Lucky Spatula was as broken as it was going to get. Even I couldn’t break it again.

But, before I got those scrambled eggs right, God knows I tried.

(This post is dedicated with love to my mom, who was supportive enough to not ever tell me that someone coming home from the hospital after a bout with appendicitis does not want to immediately be confronted with a ten-year-old’s rendition of chicken a l’orange.)