Things I've Overheard: Antique Dealers

Here's one of those, "too screwy to be made up" surreal moments.

Strolling through an antique shop, and listening to two antique dealers discussing other antique dealers and their "inability to get out of the past and follow new trends."

Seriously?

Problems With Words

Here's one of those things with English language that always bugged me.

TABLES is pronounced = "Tay-bulls"

and yet,

TABLET is pronounced = "Tah-bleht"

Whoever would have ever guessed how a single consonant at the end of a word could have such intense and powerful affect on pronunciation?

And I Quote

Thank you high-dose medication. Your willingness to take a normal human being and fuck them up beyond all repair are both inspirational and heartwarming. It is in your loving arms that I surrender myself.

-Boogie Man Montoya-

The Future Of Food In 2009

I was flipping through the reading material I got from a local college tour, when I stumbled across something interesting.

A professional food guy of much notariety was talking about the future of food, the trends that were going to be big in the new year. His Nostradamus-esque predictions?

Leg meat, beef, pork, and lamb. Oh, and duck. Duck's gonna define the '09. Oh, and the big breakthrough? bacon wrapped anything. Anything wrapped in bacon is gonna be big. Big baby, big!

Umm.......I'm no specialist or anything, but isn't that always the case?

Seems to me restaurants and other kooky food peoples have been selling this kind of stuff for years, and will most likely continue to do so long after all of us are gone. I mean duck? Seriously? Seems to me there's an entire landmass just east of us that thrives on the stuff. And wrapping stuff in bacon is hardly new. Hell I know a weirdo who dipped he shit in chocolate, so you're gonna have to do better than that to impress me.

Food is like the other great maddening arts, like music and writing (of which I have some association,) it's not something that can be calculated into trends. It's unpredictable, which is the way it should be. Spontaneous primal creation meant to be savored on the moment, with as little dignity or poise as possible. It's savagery, that's kind of the point. I want to enjoy what I enjoy, when I want to enjoy it. If you told me tomorrow that next month, Salmon was supposed to be all the rage, then you can pretty much guarantee what exactly I won't be eating. I mean, if you wanna play the whole gypsy & crystal ball game, I can whip up some predictions that would make John Edwards shit himself.

Ummm........the universe tells me.........that people will still eat at Burger King and continue to pickle their guts. There, I just blew your mind didn't I?

Good food is good food. People are always gonna eat beef and pork because they taste good. And they'll always eat it made by people who make it taste even better. That's all the forward looking graphs and population patterns you need to know. Now, it's possible that only people like me considering the fields we do, are subject to this information. In which case, I'm really only talking to myself (something I do quite often on this blog.) However, if you've stumbled across any kind of similar statistic or theorizing, here's what I suggest you do:

Go to the most decadent, savory eatery you know. Have your favorite meal, and eat the hell out of it. And while you're sitting back with gristle and pleasure streaked across your face, remember that trends are made by people who have forgotten what eating a meal is all about.

Stuff your faces folks. Keep the professionals guessing.

Boogie Visits The Art Institute

As part of my resolutions for the new year, I've been researching higher education. Something grand and entertaining to tack on to the wall next to that Bachelor's degree, and all those certifications. And one of the few places in this strange town that actually caters to my interests, is the Art Institute.

Now, if you've never heard of the Art Institute.....well then you're pretty darn normal. Basically it's a higher class vocational school, located in pretty much every major city, and it mainly caters to the hippy kids and the emo bunch who feel they're destined to do something creative. It has a decent reputation, in that unlike other vocational schools, the piece of paper you walk out with is actually worth something. However, there is a price, and that price happens to be tuition, which is rumored to be "quite high."

Naturally, I'm not exactly rolling in dough. And if I were, there are probably a lot of other things I would rather do with coin in hand than give it to some institution that shares it's building with a cell phone carrier.

But, I'm open minded right? Perhaps checking out the facility might open my eyes. Maybe I'll take one look at the campus, and meet the instructors, and know deep in my little black heart that this is the best investment of my life. So, when an opportunity for an open house turned up, I got out of bed, cleaned myself up, and headed on down for a life-changing experience.

When I arrived, there was a crowd waiting outside the facility, most of whom were younger than me by close to a decade. Clearly I was out of my time, and my generation, as a group of overly make-up and mascara doused (both the boys and girls,) tweens wearing spiky hair and department store thrift clothes stared at me with suspicion. I knew I'd feel like a bit of a grandpa at today's open house, but I had no idea that the whole mass of attendees would be staring at me like the children of the corn. The only wrinkled and weary people here were the parents of these little brats. And they didn't seem to be too fond of me either. Hopefully, I wouldn't actually have to interact with these demons, otherwise I might find myself tarred and feathered by days end.

The Art Institute is a very pretty building, governed by very pretty people. Everyone who guided me through the labyrinth of halls was made up well, with moderate to expensive haircuts, and magazine model clothes. It's like walking into the Gap, only more desperate. We were a group of about 30, and we had staff surrounding us on all sides in the corner of a classroom. There literally was no escape. And they guided us through these hallways so quickly, I'm not sure I could find the stairs to get me out of this madhouse without arousing attention. Clearly, I'm in this for the long haul.

We've been handed an itinerary of events for today. There's only five things on the list, and we're already running ten minutes late for the first one. Things are not boding well. Then, one of the pretty people's steps up to a laptop/projector combo, ready to dazzle us with the sales pitch. I notice as she's scrolling amongst the numerous icons on her laptop, being broadcast to us on a decent resolution projector, that her active desktop has failed, and is requesting recovery. Yet another bad sign.

Finally, the spiel starts. The first people on the list, are the "artists." a brief presentation on graphic arts, photography, interior design, all those professions that people aspire to wear turtlenecks to. The presentation is loaded with bright colors, quick moving and exciting videos, and of course the requisite generic techno music. The woman up front talks at great length about how important it is to have quick moving graphics and loud audio on your web page, to grab a potential surfer's attention. I find that ironic, since those are the very things that keep me away from many web pages. But oh well, what do I know? I'm a fucking dinosaur as far as these people are concerned.

Finally, we get to what I'm interested in. Culinary arts. The edibles, the tasty shit. Here's there chance to sell me on what makes this institute so great, and why it should be worth the cost of a fucking decent sized condo.

She opens her mouth, and the first thing she says..........."Making art with food."

Ye fucking gods.

Forget for a moment that most cooks with some degree of notoriety are quick to refer to cooking as a craft more than an art form, and just consider the idea she's throwing out here. Making something you put into your face for sustenance, into something that is to be admired, photographed, and lauded for it's intent. Now, perhaps this is my simpleton's notion of cooking, but it seems to me that people would much rather eat something that TASTES GOOD. Pretty plates may look impressive, but if it tastes like cardboard I'm just not gonna buy it. And I'm here to learn how to cook damnit, not stroke my ego with fantastic multicolored plates that stand three vertical feet high. Fuck the color complemented florescent sauces, I wanna learn how to fucking cook chicken!

I sneak a peak over my shoulder and see three mannequin-looking staff people guarding the door. Damn.

Next up is the Dean of Admissions. Now perhaps it's just me and my college experience, but when I think of someone with the title of "Dean," I think weather-worn, gray-haired professional who has done his time. Here, apparently it's a twerp with a Monkees-style hairdo and the nervous twitch of someone who got repeatedly stuffed into lockers as an adolescent. This man......no, this runt of some unwanted litter, can't speak to a crowd for shit. In fact, nobody I've listened to can actually pander to an audience. It makes me wonder how in the hell anyone even agreed to come to this place. I worry that somewhere in the never-ending halls of this building, they're holding hostages.

Finally, after an hour of listening to these people talk about how great it is to be working for a place so great, I finally get to see the kitchen. And admittedly, it's not bad. Not earth-shattering, or mind blowing, but it didn't completely suck. The chef on duty looked sort of like a Brady Bunch Buddha, and had that David Hasslehoff look of confusion on his face. Instinctively, I looked at his hands.

Now, perhaps it's because I read a lot of Bourdain, or perhaps it's because I've recently spent a lot of time over at Ingrid's blog, The Hungry Cupboard, but I've always been of the assumption that a professional cook should have hands that look like shit. Cut, burned, and beaten to a bloody pulp. That to me, seems the danger of the profession, and necessary collateral damage in doing this sort of thing. But, Mr. Chef Boy R Dee at the Art Institute? Well, he had nicer looking hands than mine. And I'm not talking about my hands being rougher because I sliced off another fingertip last week, or because I've still got cuts and callouses from a strange youth and thirteen years of being a musician. No, what I'm saying is this guy had well groomed, manicured hands that looked like they had never seen a garden, much less a kitchen. And, I'm supposed to learn from this guy?

He let us sample some dessert cream made from mascapone cheese, which tasted a little too sugary, and then whipped up some bananas foster in which he didn't burn off enough of the liquer. The underage adolescents in the room didn't seem to mind it nearly as much as I did though.

Finally, they wrapped up with the hard sale. Fafsa forms, scholarship info, heck you can even get your parents to co-sign a loan for you. They're cushioning the blow with all sorts of very informative stuff, but come on. Let's be frank people, what's the whole bit cost?

Then, the numbers hit: $90,000 bucks. $40,000, if you want to just want an Associates.

The last thing I remember is finding myself in a flat run, tearing down the halls of the building trying to find the way out. I could almost hear the footsteps of the staff at my heels, ready to snatch me, throw me in a closet, and make me sit under a heat lamp until I agreed that it was, "worth every penny." I didnt stop and I didn't look back, I ran hard, turning randomly into different hallways trying to lose my pursuers, until finally, I found the stairs. I tore across them with great speed, and didn't stop until I was comfortably in my trusty truck driving away.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that this is a bad institution with evil intentions or anything like that. I'm sure they teach you useful skills, and I'm sure the people who do go there have a great experience. But clearly, this place is not for me. So, for those who attened the open house, and walked away with positive vibes and warm fuzzy feelings, I salute you.

Just don't expect "grandpa" here to join your ranks anytime soon.

The 13 Year Old Dad

Ahh, Alfie and Chantelle. Too young to vote, too young to drive, and too young to play the video games they're playing. And yet they've managed to procreate. This happy little (and I stress the world little) couple managed to make headlines over at Sun News. Not the usual publication I reach for to garner the truth, but this was something too head-splitting to ignore. Read 'em and weep folks.

I wish, I really wish that I could find something cute or snarky to say about this, but I can't. The only reaction I seem to be able to illicit from this is eye-gouging anger, and the facial expression of someone who has spent months listening to fingernails being scraped on chalkboards. This is sad and infuriating, and just makes me want to crawl into bed and wait for the world to die.

One can only hope that this has the credibility of any other Sun News publication, and ends up being as truthful as the ancient Indian prophecies for the end of the world.

Top Chef: The Last Supper

After last weeks Top Chef show, we are officially down to the final four. And this, I'm sad to say, is about the only "Final Four" that a geeky little reject like me could ever be excited about. And what a way to get me psyched for the finals......by getting rid of the slut. Boy was that a load off! She should have been gone like 3-4 episodes ago. The whole romance thing was icky, and it seemed like the minute she messed up one of her meals during resteraunt wars, she just quit trying. And yet, they kept her onboard, in favor of other people who were trying much harder. So, sending her off was the best news of the night......especially since I was fairly convinced it would be Stefan who was going home. I guess he got lucky, or perhaps overcooking is less of a sin than slightly raw, who knows?

The most irritating thing about last weeks show had to have been Padme. Seriously, what the fuck was up with that dress? Skin tight, tiny, and having all the naughty bits poke out, it almost drove me to the point where I wanted to scream, "THINK OF THE CHILDREN!" There are many out there who find Padme to be an attractive woman, and to those people I wish happy daydreaming. But personally, she kind of gives me the willies.


Anyhow, here's my take on the final four:

STEFAN

My pick for winner of Top Chef, and goddamnit, I swear sometimes I could just smack him upside his bald head! He delivers the fucking goods time and time again, and nearly loses over the simplest stupid things. Last time it was underestimating his opponents skill, which you should never do, and now he's over-cooking his fish! How in the hell do you do that Mr. "Oh, I live by the sea, and know how to fillet and eel, and have been cooking for 25 years"? I'm not a professionally trained cook yet, but even I know to be fearful and of great respect when it comes to dealing with fucking seafood man! Get it together!

HOSEA

God, I can't wait for this guy to get sent home. The mouth on this guy is usually enough to get me in an anger-induced rage most nights. "Oh, I'm the seafood guy, everyone knows me as the seafood guy," blah de-fucking blah. Look, you may have a seafood resteraunt, but nobody acknowledges you as the "seafood guy." If I wanted to have an in-depth discussion on the bounty of the sea, I'm talking to the guys in my local sushi resteraunt long before I call you. You're a cook, just like everyone else on the program. The only one giving you this reputation is you buddy, and from what I've seen, you haven't delivered on your "seafood guy" credibilties. Hell, in the challenge before last, you didn't let your monkfish rest. Monkfish is supposed to rest man. Shit, I've never worked in a seafood resteraunt a day in my life, but all it took was an episode of The F Word to teach me this. And you've got all these years of experience on me and still made a dumbfuck mistake like that.

It would all be forgiveable if you didn't continue to make these loud statements about what an amazing and skilled cook you are, or how you're soooo much better than all these Euro guys. Get bent man. If you win, I'm never watching Top Chef again. Or, I'll continue to watch it after I bust Hosea in the kneecaps with a tire iron.

CARLA (aka Coco)

This is a woman I know I couldn't stand to be around for any length of time. The voice, the mannerisisms, the creepy way her eyes look like they're going to shoot out of her skull when she talks, it's all too much. If I had to spend an afternoon with her, I know that I'd be getting all kinds of angry and violent within the course of an hour. She is not someone I could ever acquaint myself with.

That said, I would have no problems eating her food. She's been cooking up some great dishes as of late, and I definitely appreciate the purist sensibilities in her dishes. If she won, I could probably be happy......so long as I don't have to hear her talk.

FABIO

Shit man, delivering up what easily had to be the best looking meal of the night, all with a broken finger? The man's got gumpsion baby. I don't care what anyone says, I genuinely like the guy. Smug as he may seem, he's quick to make fun of himself. And though I know everyone's got the whole "Itallian man-whore" persona for him, I've never seen a situation where he wasn't quick to talk about and wax poetically about his wife and family. Plus, the guy's made some awesome looking eats. There are very few things he has done that I wouldn't have been happy to eat. No abstract and artistic looking dishes with interesting colors and what not. Nope, his stuff looks like things you can eat. I have my doubts that Fabio will win this, but I'd be plenty happy if he did.


And that's that. See you all on Tuesday.

Catching Up: Jessica Simpson

Ol' Jessica's been taking a lot of flak lately.

Apparently, she decided that she would end her hiatus from the world by performing at a chili cook-off (Ye gods!) And in the process of singing for said cookeries, looked a bit plump. Pictures have been swarming the internet comparing a Dukes of Hazzard-era Simpson to the curvier Chili-era simpson, and the shit has flown. Talks of her added waistline have spawned posts ranging from "a few pounds," to "heavily obese," making for the most reviewed analysis of photographs since the JFK assassination.

Jessica has handled this public crisis pretty much as expected: She's had meltdowns, blown things out of proportion, and basically acted like a whiny brat.

Jessica's been in a major pout fest with this whole thing. She even got little sister Ashlee to berate the media for focusing so much attention on her sister's appearance, stating that there were more important things to pay attention to (as though a woman who named her child Bronx Mogwai really should be speaking about anything.) Jessica herself was quoted at a recent concert saying, "I feel like in our world today, we focus on so many things that are completely pointless."

Whatever tubby.

Don't get me wrong, I really don't care what Jessica Simpson's weight is. If she wants to go back to the slim and trim Jessica of yore, that's fine. If she wants to keep this weight, that's fine too. Hell, she can add another 20 pounds of weight to what she has, I could care less.

In fact, I almost encourage it. Despite all the mediated trash-talking going on about her, I think Jess looks like she's living a normal life. And normal is damned good. It means not spending every waking minute in a gym and having to eat grass and twigs just because there's an interweb of lonely guys who think at great length about how good you look in shorts. Life's too short man, and I'd rather spend it in the company of people who enjoy things like a lazy day, or a decadent meal, than some chiseled beast who suckles a wheat grass smoothie in between spinning classes. If Jessica Simpson wants to enjoy a few more ding dongs in her life, than I wholeheartedly support it.

But be ready to own up to it damnit. Tell the world "Yeah, I like Whoppers. I put on a few pounds, and I'm okay with it." It's honest, shows you've got gumption, and defuses a situation quite nicely. Instead, we are left with someone who pisses and moans because they are a pillar of attention, just like they wanted to be.

You'll notice that when Jessica was all slim looking, that never once did we hear her camp whining about how a woman's weight had become newsworthy. Not once did we hear how the media was a malicious beast for making such a fuss over her appearance, when she was wearing Daisy Dukes and peddling disgusting pizzas. Everyone remembers that image of her in the bar, sticking her ass straight out, forcing us to look at it. For a period of about a year, it was impossible to even escape! And nobody was talking then. Oh but now, now that her looks aren't something people are furiously maturbating over, now new oversensalization has become a bad thing.

Sorry, I'm not buying. This is the exact bag of bullshit you signed for when decided to do what you do. You get paid a ridiculous amount of money, and get offers to put your name and face on things that get sold to people like me for exorberant amounts of change, this here is the flaw to your profession. And you can invent all the "skorts" you like, and ask for prayers at every single concert you perform at, but the truth is there. Now you can go back to the gym and get back the status quo, or you can keep your current weight and own up to it, but don't be shaking your fingers at the very people who made you the success you are.

The wheel turns both ways baby.

Catching Up: Christian Bale

Last week was particularly difficult for me, which is why there were no posts, and thus no enlightenment for you, the dedicated masses. This was disappointing, since there were so many newsworthy items that just needed to be discussed. So, running fashionably late (or just plain ol' late) here is my take on a few things.

First, Christian Bale. The world was presented with an audio recording of the man losing his damn mind. I'm sure by now, everyone's heard it. And I'm sure we can all agree that he tore Hurlbut a couple'a new holes with that rant. Well, the man has since apologized for it, and the world has moved on to a slew of new bad craziness, but I still haven't had my say in the matter.

First off, I'll admit that this little outburst definitely crosses the line. Had I been on the receiving end of such a hissy fit, I would have either started sending a few fists to the face of my verbal assailant......or started crying.

But, I'm also the kind of person who gets antsy when people look over my shoulder while I'm trying to cook. And I know I've considered pulling out one of my too sharp knives and cutting on people for commiting such an act, so I can kind of understand where the guy comes from. When you're in the zone, any distraction can drive you to the brink. So, I'm not saying it's justified, but I think it's within the ballpark of understandibility.

I think the most disappointing thing about the whole episode was that it gave us a very clear look into how much of an "actor" Bale truly is. In between profanities you hear the terminology of a thespian. Words like "set," "scene," and the ever ridiculous theatre patois, that we as mere mortals have made fun of for years, "Very unprofessional." The man is a performer.

And that bums me out. I mean this guy was fucking Batman! A dark and tortured soul that kicked ass for my amusement. Batman's not supposed to care about the scene! He's supposed to bust heads damnit! The American Psycho isn't supposed to be burdened by shit that's unprofessional! This guy portrayed some of the coolest and most interesting characters in the last decade, and now it's hard to seperate those good times with the reality that he's just a guy who gets paid to pretend.

I suppose though that it is a testament to how good of an actor the guy is. You dig the characters he does so much that you almost want them to be real. And maybe losing his cool is part of the job that comes with being that good. At the end of the day, I'm not sure I'd ever call the guy a prick, just that he made a prickish move.

Still, it would've been kind of cool if Bale just didn't have a bitch fest, but literally threw the guy through a window a'la Dark Knight. Just seems so much more fitting.

Joaquin Phoenix On Letterman

Apparently, Joaquin Phoenix acted like a complete and total freak on Letterman last night.

Now, it would be easy to rip on Joaquin. Talk at great length about his appearance, which seemed to channel and offend the Amish all at the same time. Bring up his notions about leaving a career at which he is actually successful for a career he clearly has no business being in. Hell, I can even talk about the suspected drug abuse and how it has family ties. But I'm not going to.

It's too easy.

Instead, my object of scorn will be the ABC News Reel I've linked to, which summarizes the accounts of last night. I'm sure everyone knows, and seemingly agrees, that Phoenix is making the transition into becoming a "rapper" right? I know I've read that word on several occasions in various news feeds. So why the fuck, in this day and age, are there still journalists afraid to use the word?

R&B Musician. The guy says it like three times, and it sounds stupider every fucking time he says it. Joaquin Phoenix isn't an R&B musician. Smokey Robinson is a R&B musician, Marvin Gaye was an R&B musician, Otis Redding was an R&B musician.

Joaquin Phoenix is a fucking rapper.

And it boggles my mind how in this day and age, the word "rapper" is still considered taboo. Especially by ABC, a news agency that's been around for a long time. I admit, it's a stupid sounding word. Not exactly something that rolls of the tongue. I didn't much care for it when I was a kid, and I like it even less now. But, it's a term that has cultural acceptance. You can say the word and people everywhere will pretty much know what you're talking about. And here we've got professional journalists that are so goddamn skiddish, that they need to change the lingo up. And for who? 80 year old women living in a retirement home? Does the word "rapper" cause so much terror in their little hearts, that they end up peeing their pants and weeping to sleep every night? I'm fairly confident that if you people went to your grandparents and discussed rappers, they'd be able to follow the conversation.

But hey, maybe the guy hates the word. Maybe he's so particular about his prose and speaking rhythm, that the word interferes with how he talks. I could almost understand that. I mean, if Orson Welles can get pissy about structure, why not this guy? So, why not refer to Phoenix as a "Hip-Hop Musician" then? Yeah, that phrase sounds a little more preschool, but at least you're being more honest about the source material. At least it's better than comparing a mentally depraved actor-turned-psuedo musician to a history of great and honest music.

As for what's happening to Phoenix? Like I said, it's too easy. Plus, I guarantee it's gonna go down a lot harder than this.

Teaching The Teacher

Today, I taught one of my teachers.

In my classroom was a man I remember from my college days, when I was just a young, morbidly depressed, chap about town. I took a couple of courses from him years and years ago, though being 100+ student auditorium style classes, I doubt he'd ever remember. Those were rambunctious days, involving a lot of sleeping in and not attending classes. I certainly wasn't the pseudo-responsible educator extraordinaire that I am today. So, it was a bit of a shock to be the one in front of the classroom dolling out the information.

One might think that having a former teacher sit in your classroom and bounce to your rules would be one of the coolest things ever. was looking forward to the idea. Here was a guy who had barked a lot of unnecessary information in the name of filling up time, and threatened my life, limb, and GPA, all because it was "his classroom." Well not any more buddy.

I'm a big boy now, and you're in my classroom. You're gonna dance in my show and when I say, "do a fucking high kick," you're gonna do a fucking high kick. And you'll love every second I boss you around because I am the shit, and you need me to survive baby!

At least I think that's how it's gonna play out. The reality of how my class went down was far stranger.

Back when he was the master, he stood tall, had a great speaking voice, and gave the presence of someone who lived and breathed his craft. The man in my classroom today had been heavily diminished by time since last I saw him. His lanky height now curving into an arch in his back, the voice constricted and raspy. And any presence he gave over what he taught and how well he knew it was gone. He had the look of a man who knew full well he was being ravaged by the ages.

He looked on me and my materials with shaky eyes, constantly concerned about missing some critical tool or some vital information that would put him behind the rest of the class. He asked questions, lots of questions about content, that I as an instructor knew was unnecessary.

I couldn't help but feel bad for the old guy. So, I did what many instructors have done before me: I answered them as thoughtfully and honestly as I could, trying to be reassuring to this poor man. In everything I said and did, I was trying to subconsciously tell him, "It's okay man. I'll get you through this."

It's an interesting experience to be looking through both sides of the mirror at once. In some ways I kind of understood where he had come from when it was his class and his rules. The droning on and on with keywords and lengthy lectures, the distracted look he got whenever someone interrupted his flow with some obvious question, it all makes sense to me. I understand why he did it, hell I know for a fact I do it too. And while I won't go so far to say that this man was in any way a mentor to me, that helped shaped the great teaching machine who's writing this, I will acknowledge that he did help mentally cement the process by which one governs in a classroom.

The next time I step into my classroom and sit at my desk, I will most likely continue on as I've always continued. I will talk for too long about too many things, I'll stumble on my words trying to maintain some kind of verbal rhythm. I'll wisecrack and smart-ass any ridiculous content on my list and I will continue to get irritated when a hand is raised to ask a question that ruins my train of thought. But in the back of my mind, I suppose I'll always acknowledge that old teacher, realizing that I once was where he is now. And that what I have to say and show carries a bit of weight.

Top Chef

I watch, and thoroughly enjoy, a lot of Top Chef. It serves as kind of a training ground for a lot of the weird shit I employ in my cooking. At the very least, the insane antics of the overly cocky contestants help to cement a few of the philosophies about food that I've developed.

That said, I know the program comes with a lot of cook patois and culinary terminology that, if you have no interest in learning, can make the program pretty much unwatchable. So, if you're someone who is now remotely interested in the program because I brought it up, or if you happen to be a follower of the program who was just curious on what my take on this season is, here is a brief synopsis for your viewing pleasure:

Leah's a slut, Hosea's borderline racist, and Carla looks like Coco from "Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends."

Uncanny isn't it?

My prediction for who wins? Steffan. The man is cocky and pig-headed, but damnit he can back up his words with some quality looking food. He delivers the goods, end of story.

That is all.