OK, so I catch on late. I’m finally watching Oprah now that it’s the “Farewell Season”. It’s highly addictive what with one day Oprah is screaming, “YES-I’M-GIVING-YOU-A-MILLION-DOLLARS-BECAUSE-I-CAN!” and then the next day she’s crying over a tragic story of a bipolar mother who smothered her infants after a distressing trip to Dairy Queen. What probably also helps is watching her via DVR after 9:00 p.m. while on my fourth glass of Shiraz.
My favorite of the week was about a single, abandoned mom who worked three jobs, and put her one son and two adopted Asian refugee daughters through college. Of course, Oprah came through. She sent the mom and her family on her dream vacation to Italy; she paid off the kids’ 78K college debt, plus gave the mom a year off with full salary so she could have time to remember her spirit. I cried. Really. For me. Because I know now I’ll never get on that show. That mom was really smart. Once she knew the camera crew was enroute from Harpo productions, she stuck that postcard of Florence out on her fridge. You know she had to have planned that. I’d do the same and even go better: As the cameras rolled, I’d narrate: “I’ve always wanted to buy a villa in Italy and live there for the rest of my life tax-free while taking in illiterate Bosnian refugees and starting a book club for them; this can be evidenced by this empty box of Barilla pasta that I’ve kept tacked above my stove for the past 15 sad years."
Here’s the beauty of Oprah. One day, she devotes an entire episode to “food issues”. There’s an author who just wrote a book about Food and God. Weight gain is now a profoundly spiritual issue. No longer can we blame big bones or overactive thyroids. Oprah tears up with an “I’ve been there, honey” look while several obese women sob, watching their video testimonials. Stories of hiding the Thanksgiving turkey and such. Just when you’ve vowed to drink Dr. Oz’s green vegetable shakes for the rest of your life, the next episode has Oprah and her gal pal Gail finding the “BEST DAMN CHICKEN POT PIE IN THE COUNTRY!” What happened to the “spiritual path that genuinely nourishes our soul?” What happened to the daily 12 step-ish prayers we’re supposed to do when confronted with flakey crusts? Is God just dead on Oprah's Favorite Things days?
The most entertaining guests so far have been the Judds. (Minus the pretty political actress one who doesn't look fun)Winona now sports the hair color and complexion of a Buffalo Chicken Wing. Naomi came on calmly medicated with Baby Jane makeup and a visible halo. I’m still not sure if they were on for inspiration or comic relief. Their therapist was sitting in the audience, I guess giving them thumbs up signs after every platitude uttered. I now know who reads those pocket-sized daily affirmation books. Winona did have the best line of the week. She was explaining the reason her life had been such a mess:
“Oprah, I didn’t put my name on the list”.
Oprah then repeated the mantra back to her and nodded in approval,
“You didn’t put your name on the list. That’s good.”
It was then that I realized Winona Judd held the secret to my happiness:
I just need to put my name on the list.
Can someone tell me where this list is?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Me & Julia
I started a cooking class at Phoenix College. I’m so used to taking adult-ed classes, that I was amazed at how nervous I was walking in there. The atmosphere didn’t help. Everyone was silent and solemn. Chef stood at serious attention, ready to yell at someone’s fingernails. Some had even already bought their knives and were lining them up on the table, ready to attack. I felt way out of my element. I haven’t cooked professionally – and I use that term advisedly – since I was a fry cook at the Woodshed in Fresno during high school.
I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.
What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.
Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.
I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.
There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.
I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.
I walked into that classroom kitchen and it was weird: I smelled that same kitchen smell from 1978 – grease and sanitizer; felt that same queasy feeling I had when I was 17; and my back started hurting all over again from the memory of all those dishes.
What’s more, my classmates reminded me of the people that I used to work with. Although this was advertised as an International Cuisine class, it seemed to attract types that would look more comfortable behind a griddle at the Waffle House. Lots of missing teeth. I forgot about this rustic aspect of the food and beverage industry. I’m now sure that all those people on Top Chef go through a makeover before getting behind the cameras. Anyway, I’m sticking out like sore thumb – the token gay foodie. It’s not helping that I’m asking Chef stupid questions like, “Does one chop fennel in the same dice as celery when making a Mirepoix?” I believe Chef rolled his eyes as most of the class mentally asked themselves what fennel was.
Chef is slightly fear-inducing. He has a no-nonsense approach and a weary-of-the-world tone to his voice. Kind of like Anthony Bourdain-meets-Ben Stein. Part of his introductory lecture was to bash Food Network stars and rename Top Chef, “Top Shit”.
I like his philosophy. He says we should cook every single meal in our life with devotion and attention to detail as if it were our last meal. This has now made me profoundly depressed every time I empty the orange-colored dehydrated cheese packet into my macaroni.
There are two women who look polished and professional and keep nodding knowingly to everything Chef says. Fellow subscribers to Food and Wine, I deduced. I wanted to be with them -- not with the tattooed gang member wearing the hairnet as a fashion accessory. At the end of the first class, Chef had us all break up into teams -- on our own. Like stand up and go talk to people and tell them things like you can convert ounces to pints in your sleep. The advanced students were dubbed the team leaders and began frantically scouting for people who hadn’t kicked crystal meth yesterday and looked like nice players. I felt like I was back in junior high P.E. class. No one was approaching me. I kept eyeing the two women from the high rent district. Then one – sporting a blunt haircut and overly starched chef’s smock -- made her way to me. I sighed with relief. She looked at me and dismissed me as fast as a Sak’s shopgirl. She turned to a girl right next to me and said, “We only like to work with women. What experience do you have?” Bitch. I hope she burns herself.
I soon realized why this class is so humorless. Most are in training for careers and we all represent competition for each other. I thought about announcing to the class that I was gainfully employed and would not be vying for their same Denny’s job interview. I’m only taking this class so that I can have fabulous dinner parties once I meet people in Phoenix who don’t consider The Olive Garden as their favorite exotic night out.
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