Learn to Talk Good

The upside to having a boyfriend who loves to cook is, of course, getting to try a lot of great and interesting meals.
Well, great or interesting. Avocado ice cream was a neat thing to try, but I think I’ll pass next time I need something to accompany a birthday cake. Unless the cake is made of tostidos with salsa frosting. Great, now I’m nauseous.
The downside to having a boyfriend who loves to cook is hearing the frigging Food Network behind you 24/7 when you’re trying to concentrate on very important videos of cats pouncing on babies on the internet.
I’m sorry, but I have always vehemently insisted that I will only watch the Food Network if and when they then invent food replicators. It doesn’t matter how many yum yum noises you make, Chairman Kaga, it’s rude to eat in front of people.
I changed my mind slightly when I discovered “Good Eats” with Alton Brown, who I mistakenly continue to pronounce “All-ton” because I was taught German pronunciation. Now, that’s a good cooking show because it is so damn informative. I was a baker for a bit back in Pittsburgh, and there was this hella long list of crap you had to do to make sticky buns, and I always asked everyone WHY you had to do these things because I knew it would help me remember. Then they gave me a blank look and sometimes fell over because I never mopped the floor because I hated my job because I was making sticky buns for a living.
So Alton’s cool, but there are some others on that channel that really grind my gears.
Let’s start with Rachael Ray. Besides looking at her man face every time I go to eat a Triscuit, I can’t stand how she spins all of her meals into what a great girlfriend she is. It seems like all the shows I overhear are about how to cook that steak right so your guy won’t leave you, or the perfect party dip for your hubby’s poker night, or her special PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO ME, GOD, I LOVE YOU, CAN’T YOU TURN AWAY FROM THAT STUPID GAME FOR ONE SECOND, I HAVE A VAGINA Superbowl halftime souffle. AND STOP SAYING DELISH!
Phew. I have to calm down now. I’m all right.
Next, onto Paula Deen. If you don’t know who she is, just switch to the Food Network and wait for a Grandmotherly woman shoving sticks of butter into other sticks of butter and serving it to her sons.
Now, it appears to me that to be on the Food Network, you obviously have to have some kind of personality and/or a strange accent of some sort. Rachael doesn’t have one, I suppose, but that’s because I haven’t punched her in the mouth yet.
Paula has a southern drawl so pronounced that it would make Tennessee Williams want to change his name to North Dakota Williams.
Did that metaphor make any sense? No? Well, I tried.
When Justin watches her, I can never get any work done, because I’m constantly spinning around in my computer chair to mock her pronunciations of various common words. Now, I lived in the South for four years, and I sort of like it down there. They’re relaxed, laid-back, and friendly. However, nowhere in the Southern dialect would it instruct you to pronounce the word “spatula” as “spachelor.”
What the hell is a spachelor? A single male spatula? Should we all go to a spachelor party?
There is absolutely no excuse for someone in the food business to pronounce the most basic of utensils incorrectly and in a way that has nothing to do with your accent.
Which brings us to Emeril. Sure, good guy, whatever. I won’t make fun of him too much for the same reasons I wouldn’t make fun of Frank Sinatra or Joe Pesce, if you get my drift.
My beef with him is how he pronounces the word “stirring.” He says “steering,” which, again, has nothing to do with a thick New York accent. Where are you going to steer that soup? Into my mouth?
Whenever people pronounce things wrong, I always wonder if they’re consistent across the board. For instance, would he pronounce a “heart murmur” as “heart meermeer”?
A heart meermeer sounds like an adorable creature that should be living in a manor on Animal Planet.
There are others, but I guess I can’t fault them too much, since I already admitted that I myself mispronounce “Alton.” On the other hand, I don’t get paid to have a TV show where I pronounce Alton all day. I don’t think it’s too ridiculous to assume that at least once in chef school the head teacher chef used the words “spatula” and “stir,” but perhaps Paula and Emeril were sick on those respective days.
And now, because Justin is asleep, I’m off to enjoy the zenith of my culinary talents, or as some people call them: Spaghetti-Os.

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