I Can't Believe Paula Deen Ruined Butter!

Cooking shows have become a staple of television.  Julia Child and The Galloping Gourmet were television cooking pioneers, creating really complicated dishes before our very glued-to-the-tube eyes, or demystifying what we thought was difficult, when in fact was totally do-able - like sticking a chicken in the oven. They listed each step, never leaving one out in case someone at home was following along.  Was anyone actually doing it? Actually getting up off the couch and following the steps of the chef?  No. Couches are comfy for a reason.

Remember Jack LaLanne? Long before Jane Fonda's areobics-as-soft-core porn, pre-Richard Simmons sweated his bedazzled ass to the 80's, a young, buff Jack LaLanne appeared on the exercise scene and on black and white television.  He motivated millions by exercising on his daily television programs. He'd ask you to get up and join him - and he was really excited!  He would count with emphasis, expecting you to count back to the tv set as you did the exercise (sometimes he'd give you tips on form - "Back straighter!"). 

He imagined millions of housewives transfixed like zombies, unable to resist his prodding, jumping up and exercising.  Little did he know that we just sat there, mentally exercising. We would chastise ourselves, "I should get right up and do some of those push-ups. It would be cute." But we sat. "Yep, all I have to do is move like, 2 feet. If I just exerted almost no effort, I could be in awesome shape - I could be a virtual hard-body." We got a little comfier on the couch.

Suddenly, the shiny wrapper of a Hershey's bar catches our eye, and the next thing we know we can't get up. We just sit there, so wanting to get up and do some bends-n-thrusts for Jack, but we just can't -  not from lack of will but from the weight of actual food ingested during the program. (Tip: Networks shouldn't show appetizing food during commercials.)

So, to be brief - we did not exercise along to the program. We sat. So it should be no surprise that when we watch cooking shows, we don't cook along, we sit. I don't want to chop onions, I want to watch the Iron Chef cut a finger while he chops onions.  I need to focus in case on today's show this is the one time that Rachel Ray doesn't wash her hands after handling raw chicken. When the headline comes out, "RayRay Rushed to Hospital- Risky Chicken Business!" my Facebook status simply states, "I saw her. The bitch is crazy." You will all know to what I refer.

Ina Garten makes some tantalizing looking food, and gives fancy entertaining tips.  I am especially entertained when she asks her one gay friend to stop by. She always has him arrange the flowers or set the table. Just once, instead of pushing peonies around, or holding up a charger musing, "Look at the way it catches the reflection of the peonies," I'd like him to rip off his shirt in one violent, to-hell-with-J.Crew-tug, take as much of polenta-fed Ina as he can fit in his arms, and dip her, proclaiming in his surprisingly masculine voice, "Ina, I'm heating things up around here. Kiss me." Okay, I might watch that twice because the first time I was giggling.

Martha Stewart courteously schools her viewers on unfamiliar cooking tools possibly never seen before, and repeats French culinary words like she is spelling them into Helen Keller's hand: "Jew-lee-ann." She kindly explains a bain marie like she fucking invented it, right before curing the common cold, "And this ham." Remember that guy who shot his television up when Bristol Palin was advanced to the next level on Dancing with the Stars? I totally don't blame him.

Paula Deen. A hush falls over the page. Some of you cover your mouths to both hide your gasps and keep the waffle in. Bob used to call me Paul Deen because I liked to use a little butter in some dishes. In most dishes - ok, all the dishes, including those where butter messed them up.  We now keep butter in the freezer, where it comes out occasionally.  To request butter from the butter safe - I get all dressed up and am on good behavior, like Hillary Clinton in a Chanelish suit and just-cut bangs, asking China to cover our debt for another 25 years. And by 25 I mean forever.

At the moment of capitulation, Bob the Butterkeeper slowly creaks open the freezer door and extracts the butter from the special compartment - the one I am not allowed to dust or rotate. He looks at it to make sure it hasn't been tampered with and marks the current amount with a sharpie. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" (Comes out: Oh, wow, geez, you really don't have to do that. Like really, I'm all dressed up and on good behavior, man.)
Butter in Paris!
The sterilized knife comes out creeping out of the drawer, slowly, the blade menacingly catching the light as it glides into the air over the butter. Bob peels the aged wrapper off the butter, like it is a sacred papyrus that holds a soon-to-be-lost language. As the blade of the knife meets the cold butter, I can actually hear a Finnish child squeal. It squeaks across the yellow fatty flesh and carves off the tiniest, thinnest slice.  If I hold it up into the light, I can see the future. It's thin folks - like Sarah Jessica Parker on a postcard.

Paula Deen ruined butter for me. I used to present a decent argument about how it's not that bad - I'd throw Julia Child at him - everything in moderation. Now, I don't have a perfectly-developed leg to stand on. She unapologetically admitted that she has the kind of diabetes caused by a poor diet, and has had it for 3 years. Bitch! If I could reach through the tv I would snatch her weave so fast that half of her capped teeth would follow. I would take her by the thumb ring (Thumb ring, really, Paula?? You're like 78.) and shake her like a tilt-o-whirl.

Fancy-ass cruise ship butter
Why didn't she pull her head out of her waxed ass and transform her artery clogging recipes into more healthful alternatives? Use half yogurt in a sauce instead of sour cream. Use lemon juice and olive oil. Anything but continue to support her eating style and cook the way she always has.  She is a ruiner. Would it have killed her to substitute egg whites in hollandaise every other time?  Would it have even worked? I doubt it. She will more likely perish from my disapproval and refusal to buy any of her lead-based cookware.

I'd like to see me try now to get some butter off of that frozen chunk we have had since 2008. Hell, I might as well pay Bob $8 and visit it, try to sneak a picture of it with my iphone like any other museum I visit. I could actually develop a semi-rare medical condition that only old, frozen butter could cure, and I couldn't have any of my "medicine". But Paula Deen is apparently still rolling in it - like a pig, in - well, I'm not going to trash talk.

Now that butter's over, I will miss butter. And I will never, ever forget the day that Paula Deen ruined butter. And by butter I mean her career.

5 comments:

  1. This soooo needed to be said, ya'll. Ya'll know Paula has telling us what we wanted to hear, ya'll, not what we needed to hear, ya'll; culinary demagoguery, ya'll.
    Thanks for telling it like it is, Greg, I fell butter now that we know the facts.

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    Replies
    1. Thanks, K - I wonder what they will do with her time slot(s). We don't have enough Japanese game shows.

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  2. Brilliantly expressed. As always

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  3. Kevin just got his numbers back from the doctor and they're perfect. The only thing that ever messes them up for either of us is eating too much sugar. Keep sugar occasional, but go ahead and eat that butter. That isn't what made Paula Deen sick.

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