How Annoying is THAT?
Rachael Ray has been working over-time lately, acting as my very own Britney -n- Kevin of the cooking world. Sometimes, in between doses of her Bad Sopranos Extra New York accent and her zealous gesticulations, I imagine her cooking eggs in a trailer park, wearing sweatpants and a Hooters t-shirt. Other times, I imagine her walking down the street with some friends, only to be met with the mean blow of a wooden baseball bat that has suddenly swooped out of an alley.
Yet for some reason, I continue to watch the show.
I’m not an expert in the kitchen, but I do enjoy the free therapy cooking well provides me. I like to gather things that I need, cut, chop and slice, and taste the reward of a long day over a project. I turn up the music, zone out into my own little world, and emerge a calmer, more easy-going person than I was going in. Of course there are days when I don’t want to cook at all, and there are even more days when an elaborate therapy session in the kitchen isn’t practical, so every once in a while I turn to Rachael for inspiration.
Despite the fact that her every move annoys me, I watch and listen as she shows me various shortcuts and time-savers. Boxed cornmeal? No shit? Ice cream from a carton with syrup on top? Get out of town! While I appreciate the “time saver”, I can hardly agree to sign on for such delicate works of art as mini cheeseburger salad. Just look at that thing: it’s lettuce, pickles and little meat pellets covered in cheese. I just lost my appetite. And we’d be remiss to forget about all her wacky “recipe” titles, such as You Won’t Be Single for Long Vodka Cream Pasta”. I’m not nearly as staunch a feminist as some women I know and even I take offense at that. What’s the plan, Rach? Get him toasted on a plate of vodka-doused carbs and tattoo my name on his chest?
I know, I know, she’s “wacky” and “kooky” and “eccentric”. Yes, she is. And if I could think of one person I know that is any of those three things, it’s entirely likely I hate them, too. Add “condescending” to all of those things and you get Rachael Ray: the most annoying television personality since Geraldo.
Every time she reaches for the olive oil I cringe. “Here it comes,” I think to myself. I watch her reach for the bottle, I see her gaping pit of a mouth start to move, her eyes start to move up to the camera, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming, “EVOO! IT’S EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL, WE KNOW!” By the time she’s made it through “S&P” and whatever else she’s abbreviated (in the interest of time? why not just say ‘olive oil’, in that case?), I’m ready to throw myself out the window. But just like with Britney and Kevin, I can’t look away. It’s just too mesmerizing.
I’ll continue to sit there to see how things turn out for little Rachael. She’ll continue with her double-pronged gestures, and I’ll continue to upgrade my level of second-hand embarassment until she reaches the pinnacle of obnoxiousness: the self-induced oral orgasm that is the test-taste of her own food.
“Mmm, YUMMO!” She moans, eyes rolling back in her head. I watch her roll the food around in her mouth, acting as if the taco shells she bought off the shelf at Safeway combined with the ground beef she just cooked with an onion is the mot amazing concoction on the planet. She follows up her convulsion with one of those Point At the Fork and Talk With Your Mouth Full gestures that indicates “Hey, I can’t even wait until I’m done chewing to tell you how amazing this crap is.” I don’t care how cute you think you are, Rachael, I don’t need to see the food swirling around in your mouth. It’s not a matter of taste or manners, it’s about how annoying it is to watch someone on television chewing and groaning and moaning and talking with food falling out of their mouth.
At the end, she’ll inevitably declare the food to be “Delish” or “Healthful”, and if she’s on $40 A Day, she’ll leave a shitty tip. This is usually the part where Rachael tells some totally irrelevant and nonsensical story about some relative of hers or her new husband, forcing a laugh at the end as if to inspire us to chuckle along. This is usually the part where I open a beer, because I’m getting dangerously close to looking up “Crazy Uncle Louie” in the phone book, praying there’s an address.
The worst part is I can’t escape. $40 A Day, Tasty Travels (the title could work overtime as a children’s show about good eating habits or porn, take your pick), and Inside Dish (aka D-List Celebrity Slobberfest with Rachael Ray) pervade the Food Network, and her magazines sit antagonizingly beneath Martha and Real Simple at the market I frequent. Now I’m told she’s got a day time talk show in the works, thanks to none other than Oprah, and I’m wondering if its time to move back to Germany. At least everyone there is serious and humorless enough to stand by me in my distaste for fake enthusiasm.
Anyway, if anyone is interested, call me when Rachael is on (give me notice so I can get a babysitter) and we’ll play the Rachael Ray Drinking Game together. I’m sure it’s more fun in real life, but I don’t know anyone else who will sit through all 30 minutes with her.
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