Gen X Journey

I fancy myself as a bit of a cook, a chef? Maybe a masterchef even? Well, I can pretty well cook anything.

On impulse I invited friends for lunch on Sunday. Forgot that it was a public holiday and all the shops were shut. But I made focaccia from scratch (rosemary sourced from my herb garden, gourmet olives in the pantry), baked polenta, aioli, grilled steak, avocado salsa and finished with brownies and ice cream. The ice cream was diet, but that’s all I had in the freezer (I’m always on a diet).

I sound like one of those wanky people who write for food magazines, though I will admit the fresh herbs and gourmet olives does sound like suspiciously wanky behaviour. Anyway the food tasted great, we drank loads of grog and had a fabulous time.

So you can see why I fancy myself as being a half a chance on Masterchef. I briefly considered My Kitchen Rules but as my husband can only cook steak and make very good pasta, I thought our repertoire might be a bit limited and I’d be better off solo. I didn’t audition of course (that would involve doing, not just talking about it) and can I say I’m very, very pleased I didn’t. Because I might have got in.

It’s not the food that’s the problem though. I could probably do that no worries. I tend not to panic, am great at multi-tasking while cooking, keep my temper (except for that music box birthday cake for my daughter’s 4th birthday that nearly brought me unstuck).

No the food bit would have been fine, but what’s with all the blubbering? Every time I turn on the show someone’s having a meltdown. For heaven’s sake Claire was crying about pompous Matt’s fat strawberries story. I thought for a minute that I was watching Dr Phil, but no it was Masterchef.

Last week I watched contestant Philip the Incompetent (not Dr but the one who just knows he’s good looking) You’re screwed I thought when I saw his ordinary cooking effort, but then he pulled out the master card. He kissed the cross around his neck and then wept and wailed about his grandmother. And it worked. He got in. His dish looked like crap, but that boy can wail for his country and Greek grandmother.

So here is my question. Is the show no longer Masterchef but Mastercrier?

Anyway I’ve solved my problem. I just tape it and watch it the next night when I should have been watching that night. That way I can fast forward through the zillions of ads (but not the ricotta cheese ads, they’re really good–better than Masterchef actually). I can also fast forward through any close up that involves the welling of tears and George with a serious face wringing his hands.

And what is with all this heart and soul and love on a plate. Here I was thinking it was fish and veges (sorry Gary vegetables–apparently we need to pay them respect). But no it’s not–it’s love and respect and heart and soul. Puhleeeze–that is wankery.

It’s just food, bloody good food, but food all the same. Goes in one way, deposits fat and nutrients and then leaves another way. I think a bit of perspective may be needed here.

Which leads me to my final point. Is Masterchef our new religion? Is it like a version of Scientology or Catholicism or a happy clappy church. Do we cry and talk about our hearts and souls on a plate as a new form of worship? Is Matt Preston our new demi-god? You’d think so the way everyone claps and slightly comes in their pants when he enters the room.

So any new religion needs a prayer and this is one that Master Chef/Crier/Religion may like to adapt as their own.

The Masterchef Prayer
Our food critic who art in the kitchen
Matt Preston be thy name
Thy fry pan come
Thy steak be done
Just as it is for George and Gary.
Give us today
Our home baked bread
And forgive us
Our plating
As we forgive souffles
That flop against us
And lead us not into elimination
But lead us to a cookbook deal
For yours is the heart, soul and passion
Of the plate
Now and forever
Dig in.  Image