Food Porn

I love food. Those of you who know me know how much I love food. It is a passion grown out of a lifetime of being hungry, constantly hungry and trying to find new ways to satisfy that hunger.

I'm just glad the rest of America has caught up with me.

Last night, I sat in drooly awe of the dishes served up on Top Chef (my favorite television show). Well, not so much the escargot, which I've had a few times and never really developed a taste for, but the lobster, the rabbit, the poussin, the bernaise, the sauce Americain, mmmmmmmmm.

But I realized something a few years ago about Top Chef and programs like it - they are food porn.

No, I'm not saying that the chefs stand around and make their ingredients have sex with each other (that's another type of show entirely), but the music, the lighting, the conversation - all porn.

The ingredients are piled high on tables - glossy, perfect vegetables, succulent meats, glistening bottles of olive oil - all poised for their performance. The pots and pans are scrubbed to a sheen and the counter tops always glow softly in the studio lighting. Not like my kitchen, where the pots are dented and have scorch marks on the handles and I have to scrape a week's worth of mail off the counter before I can start cooking.

The unreality of porn also translates to the shopping trips. No matter how many items these chefs pile in their little carts, no one ever leaves Whole Foods with more than two re-usable, earth-friendly bags. I can be making dinner for three people and leave the store with bags hanging off my arms, in my teeth, tied to my waist, but these folks can cook dinner for 200 lumberjacks from two dainty bags.

Things get a little more real when the cooking happens - chefs running around, sweating like pigs, chopping, stirring, blending, shouting, etc. That looks more like my cooking life, but with less blood. (I'm kind of a crazy chopper.)

But the real apex (I daren't say climax) comes when the finished product is presented. The food coming out of the kitchen is lovingly plated, with swirls of sauce, dabs of condiments and sprigs of garnish. The descriptions are even more elaborate:

"What I've done here, chefs, is oil-poach the trout in a reduction of balsamic and then fricassee it with a mix of mushrooms for the earthiness - you've got morels, shitake and button mushrooms in there - and that's sitting on top of a red-wine and baby rabbit liver risotto - I butchered that baby rabbit by hand to make sure it was done right - with an infusion of caramel for sweetness and chamomile for freshness. For acidity I've added some speed-zested Meyer lemons with a spritz of crab-apple vinegar. We've got some micro greens dressed in a little pomegranate juice and rabbit fat. To top it off, chiffonade of pineapple and a little mustard green garnish. Oh, and a little aubergine foam."

I never have any idea what the hell they are talking about, but the picture of the plate looks so delicious in its perfection and soft lighting that I can't help but to drool a little. I imagine the flavors, even though I don't know what some of them even taste like. I pretend I'm eating along with Tom, my favorite judge, and that Padma doesn't look nearly as good in person. Watching the show late at night is the worst, though, because you always head into the kitchen afterward, ravenously hungry and with nothing to eat except a high-fiber English muffin and some stale saltines.

The worst part about it is the effect it has on your own life, just like porn. You can never live up to those standards, people. My food never involves foams or mache, just like my sex life doesn't involve breast implants or other women.

But a girl can dream.

ABOUT THE FOOD, PEOPLE.