Everybody Has a Dream

There are four distinct television periods in our home. First is 7-9 am, dominated by a wide variety of animated programs (but always including, if at all possible, “Magic School Bus”); next is midday, which is a TV-free zone punctuated by an occasional video; fourth is the after-8-pm/after kids’ bedtime period.

In between the last two is the pre-bedtime period. Understand that we don’t as a rule use TV as a child-distraction technique, but in the half-hour or so before bedtime, it can be an effective landing strip for kids to come down from a long, busy day. Even at that hour, it’s possible to find kid-oriented programming, but that’s not cartoon time in our den.

No, even if you take Our Boy out for ice cream, or the circus – or ice cream at the circus – his main preoccupation will be whether he’s going to miss “Unwrapped”. If you’re not familiar, this is a show on the Food Network that goes behind-the-scenes to show how things like M & M’s, ice cream, or chips are made. I have to admit that I am often as transfixed, or more so.

His official bedtime is at 8, but unfortunately that’s when The King makes his entrance, and nothing will do but that we watch at least a few minutes. I’m speaking, of course, of the one and only Emeril. Once he’s seen the segment before the first commercial, it’s as if his day is officially complete and he can go to bed fulfilled.

I’m not sure I understand the fascination. Maybe it’s because he’s loud and boisterous and laughs at his own jokes. Maybe it’s just the “Bam!”, although my son rarely if ever emulates it. One way or the other, he’s clearly the Big Cheese, or Pork, or Pasta, at our house.

The truth is I’m a bit obsessed with him myself. I wish I were an accomplished chef, a wealthy man, a TV star, a celebrity… but it’s really not just a shallow envy of someone who could buy and sell me 100 times over.

I want his support staff.

When he stands up to cook, you know it wasn’t him who chopped all the veggies, boned all the chicken breasts and measured all the spices. When he gets every pot in the house dirty, it’s not him staying after the show to wash dishes; he doesn’t have much incentive to re-use a measuring cup and he never runs out of clean paring knives.

I’d surely love all that, but I’m really most fixated on something even more obscure. After he does the opening bit, the theme song plays and the stagehands come out. One wraps him in a clean, white apron; one pins his mike on him; and right before he takes center stage, they hand him a pristine, snowy white towel.

If he were in my kitchen, he’d be wiping his hands on the same scrap of paper towel all day – trying not to use up the whole roll, since I also have no shopping support staff. And forget about using a kitchen towel, because guess who’s the laundry support staff?

Every time I see the show, that towel seems to loom a little larger, glow a little brighter. I think at this point I’d chop all the veggies, bone all the chicken breasts, measure all the spices, wash all the dishes… if only there were someone to hand me a pristine, snowy white towel when I’m ready to cook.