I’m not sure how it happened, exactly, but I’ve become addicted to… Food Network.
(Yeah, you didn’t see that coming, did you? Not if you’ve read much of my stuff, anyway. Addicted to speed, you might’ve bought. Hooked on the wacky weed, maybe. Hell, if you’ve read enough, you’d probably believe I’m hooked on shooting Windex into my eyelids. But no; it’s not that. I’m not addicted to that stuff. Like, the Windex thing? I can stop any time I want to. Honestly.)
Anyway, I don’t know what it is. I’m certainly no gourmand, by any stretch. I eat when it’s time to eat, and in between I don’t think much about food. I’m not a chocoholic, nor a cheesehead, and I don’t really appreciate ‘vertical’ food.
(Really, that last one? Come on. Build it upward, so no one will notice that there’s really not much on the plate? A couple of little breadsticks jutting out of my food do not an enjoyable meal make. Maybe that’s just me.)
But somehow, some way, the shows on Food Network are… mesmerizing. And I don’t really understand why. I don’t write down recipes, or anything like that. And even if I did, they wouldn’t do me any damned good. I can cook like a hippo can fly. No good can possibly come from me in the kitchen with a ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron. Salmonella, perhaps, but no good. Unless you happen to be salmonella, I guess. But I tend not to think of things that way.
Still, I can’t stop watching these shows about food. The history of food, food travel shows, food competitions, you name it. I’ll watch ’em all.
(Except, oddly enough — not Emeril. Arguably the face of the network, the most famous chef around the airwaves these days, he of the emphatic ‘bam!‘ — not so interested. Maybe it’s because I don’t cook, so I can’t really learn from his tips. Or maybe because it’s a studio gig, and reminds me too much of a talk show. Or maybe because it’s just a cooking show, and the host isn’t some hot little chickie licking hot fudge off a spoon. Whatever it is, Emeril’s the one guy that I typically don’t watch on the network.
Which is unfortunate for me, of course, since he’s on the damned thing roughly nine hours a day. Still, that leaves plenty of time for me to tune in. And maybe one day, the guy will grow on me. But not today.)
Anyway, there you go. I’m no foodie, but apparently I’m a Food Network-ie. Or something. All I know is that it’s Sunday night, and I’m TiVoing the Simpsons, while I actually watch some barbeque competition that probably happened three years ago, for all I know. And I’m riveted. Rachel Ray’s not even involved in this one. I’m pretty sure this qualifies as some sort of mental illness, people. With a side order of goofball.
Eh, screw it. It is what it is; why try to change myself, when this is easily one of my more harmless obsessions? I’ve got plenty of other issues I should work out, before I deal with this one. I’m wrapping this thing up, to go see which group of ‘grillbillies’ takes the prize. Call me crazy, but I’m hooked. Why fight it? It’s not like I’m watching LifeTime, for chrissakes.Permalink | 4 Comments