On Rachel Ray: “Complain all you want. It’s like railing against the pounding surf. She only grows stronger and more powerful. Her ear-shattering tones louder and louder. We KNOW she can’t cook. She shrewdly tells us so. So…what is she selling us? Really? She’s selling us satisfaction, the smug reassurance that mediocrity is quite enough. She’s a friendly, familiar face who appears regularly on our screens to tell us that ‘Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this!’ Wallowing in your own crapulence on your Cheeto-littered couch you watch her and think, ‘Hell…I could do that. I ain’t gonna…but I could–if I wanted! Now where’s my damn jug a Diet Pepsi?’ Where the saintly Julia Child sought to raise expectations, to enlighten us, make us better–teach us–and in fact, did, Rachael uses her strange and terrible powers to narcotize her public with her hypnotic mantra of Yummo and Evoo and Sammys. ‘You’re doing just fine. You don’t even have to chop an onion–you can buy it already chopped. Aspire to nothing…Just sit there. Have another Triscuit…Sleep….sleep….'”
He goes on to snark about other cooks, like Sandra Lee. That rich, white privileged woman with her semi-homemade boobs (30% real, 70% saline), who made a Kwanzaa cake with CORN NUTS, annoys me to the point that it burns my eyes. Why does she have to make it semi-homemade? What about fully homemade?
She’s not shut out of my black heart forever, though. The Semi-Homemade episode that would win me over would be one dedicated to Anna Nicole Smith in which Sandra Lee concocts some frou-frou cocktail and spills it onto her cheeto and vicodin tablescape, saying, “This one’s for our homie.” She could also just open up a box of Franzia because anyone who drinks wine from a spigot is after mine own heart.