Reality TV is all we watch. Throughout the year, groupings of us watch Project Runway, American Idol, and America’s Next Top Model. But only Top Chef is watched by all four of us. I can’t fully define what the appeal is for us, as we can’t taste or even smell what they’re cooking, but we watch every episode, every minute of it, and then run to the kitchen for something to eat as their creations leave us ravenous.
A quick synopsis for people who lead lives not filled with Bravo TV: Top Chef brings together 15 aspiring chefs who compete in weekly food preparation challenges. One by one, they are told to pack their knives and go, until the final one is voted Top Chef and given money and shiny kitchen appliances.
Top Chef has sparked a new kind of competition in my house that’s all about cooking. The contests are lively, the results are not always tasty, and someone in my family gets voted off.
It began on a school vacation day last year. I announced the opening competition, Lunch for the Family, to be made from anything found in the kitchen. Thirty minutes, starting . . . NOW! Cabinets flew open, grated cheese and cereals were thrown onto the counters, cutting boards and bowls were filled with olives, garlic, eggs, and potato chips, and suddenly the kitchen was riotous.
In those 30 minutes, we discovered some unkind traits about one another. Not many good sharers, hoggers of counter space, a bit of pushing, a lot of yelling. The one oven was furiously set for 450 degrees, then 275, then warm. Tremendous sabotage potential lurked.
I was the calmest of contestants as I cook dinner every night. I knew timing. I knew estimations. I knew to look in the back of the refrigerator where ingredients hid. I required little counter space. I was the eye of the family storm.
Amidst the melee, sauteeing and microwaving commenced. You took my onions! I needed the salsa! Who turned down the oven? Our little dog quietly mopped her nose along the kitchen floor, happy to find a mini buffet of her own.
I quietly chopped my canned peaches, mixed them with cinnamon, made a dough pocket cut from my somewhat old, packaged pie crust, and adorned the little McDonald’s apple pie sort of thing with little adorable stars also made from crust.
“Twelve minutes!” Twelve minutes? Only? Who used the last egg? Do we have any whipped cream?
I set my mini peach pockets into the 450/275 degree oven.
Ding! Pots and pans down, time’s up!
If I were ever a contestant on the show, one of the most difficult parts for me would be the elaborate naming of food. Not only is the presentation often stunning, the creations are saturated with food adjectives as well. How would I rename my mini ordinary peach pocket using demi-glazed, reduced, frothed, flambéed, chiffonade, amuse bouche? One daughter was able to name her pasta with some impressive yet since forgettable name. My husband relied heavily on hand waving and a supposed French accent. The other daughter said, “Oh, I don’t know. Just eat it!” I couldn’t come up with anything besides “I made a peach pie.”
It was truly an amazing lunch prepared by my little family. I was stunned! Pasta with a multitude of colorful ingredients, Moo Shu dumplings with peanut and coconut dipping sauce, crisp, garlicky bruschetta -- all in all enough food for 10 people. We ate, we exchanged compliments, we voted on paper ballots.
The kitchen was in “uh oh, wait 'til our parents see this!” condition. While the counting of votes took place, and to escape being corralled into cleaning duty, I went out to walk the dog. When I came back in, I was told I’d lost, and asked to please pack my knives and go. Too bad, since I really could have used those shiny appliances. Especially the oven.
Photo from Flickr user ArndW