I am the MasterChef

Tonight, I pulled off what could be considered one of the greatest culinary achievements of all time. Usually, if I’m at home and hungry, I’ll happily put on a tin of baked beans, toast eight slices of bread, and proclaim that to be my lunch or dinner. The food I cook, for lack of a better term, generally only requires the ability to press “Start” on the microwave. The most complex dish I could conjure up was simply ravioli and tomato paste, made from the vestiges of a food tech practical. But then I cooked dinner tonight.

Because she’s Irish, my mum suggested I should make a stew. Because I’m ignorant, I really had no idea how to make a stew, and so approximated one as best I could. This meant making a spicy Asian curry. (INTERPOLATION: Do people who watch cooking shows like reading about cooking as well? I would hope not.) Despite my total lack of experience, I somehow managed to pull off the massaman- in my biased opinion, it was up there with the top 300 Thai restaurants on the coast. More importantly, though, was the fact that I was insanely pleased with myself, as if I had executed a guitar solo perfectly, or eaten a jam doughnut without having the jam squeeze out the other side.

This innate happiness is probably why these people get into cooking and go on MasterChef, I believe, and I am stunned that I didn’t realise it would exist before experiencing it first hand. Inexplicably, I’d assumed making a meal was not seen as a challenging activity, but rather a laborious example of… labouring. Now I see why cooking has emerged as an evolutionary pseudo-art form, albeit one somewhat limited in its scope. I also grasp why MasterChef’s ratings are otherwordly, and still don’t get why they haven’t created some kind of decathlon of reality television. Tell me you wouldn’t watch this show:

DAY ONE- The contestants, living in an enclosed compound, compete to see who is the best singer. The winner gets immunity from malaria for the week.

DAY TWO- Then they proceed to beat the crap out of each other in a series of boxing matches a la “The Contender”. The females can use what we call “The Stinger” on their gloves.

DAY THREE- Sporting black eyes, swollen lips, and generally looking hideous, the contestants have all day to create a delicacy-and-fashion-garment combo, allowing them to hide behind models and great amounts of steam.

DAY FOUR- Another singing contest.

DAY FIVE- Contestants are dropped into Karma nightclub on Jersey Shore, where they immediately proceed to ‘pound out’ each and every guy and girl there (thought the definition of ‘pound out’ varies in accordance with the subjective gender).

DAY SIX- Abandoned on a deserted island, the contestants have nothing to do except deconstruct the series finale of Lost.

DAY SEVEN- Freedom! Interviewees are conducted with contestants; some choose to respond, others let their “FREE TH REFUGEES” signs do the talking for them.

Awesome show, right?

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4 responses to “I am the MasterChef

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