It’s not easy for my husband and I to find a television show we can both enjoy. It’s even harder to find common territory when it comes to reality TV (he’s more “let’s blow something up”, while I’m more “which guy will she pick?!”) But every summer we can both happily settle in with The Next Food Network Star. Is it because we love food? Is it because we learn cooking tips while watching? Is it because it lands in the very neutral territory between educational and people drama? I know part of it for me is that I secretly seethe with jealousy over Giada’s body (no Italian cook should ever look that good) and keep watching, waiting for her to short out, proving that she is indeed a robot.
|A little something I like to call a “peanut butter tower”.
Take note of our fine dishware–
loving the IKEA plastic kids’ plates
So every week, in that blissful kids-are-in-bed time, we find ourselves kicking back and holing up with our On Demand treat. Opinions over which contestants should go and which should stay are readily spouted out as we fancy ourselves to be the most esteemed of food critics. This is so fun, but I won’t pretend there isn’t an inherent danger: the gorgeous plating skills I’ve been gleaming scare me. I told my husband the other day at breakfast to not be surprised if I was snatched up by the network after they got wind of my ingenious version of peanut butter toast…
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