Keith hates Masterchef with the same passion that I love it.
It's a shame. I've tried to explain that my love affair can only impact positively on his life (i.e: his stomach) but he doesn't buy it. Last year he was more than a little alarmed when he came upon me weeping copious tears as I watched Julie's grand final win. He had to pat my shoulder as I tried to tearfully explain what had been so unexpectedly moving about Mystery Boxes and Invention Tests.
It's tough, because Channel 10 deals out Masterchef in huge doses, and while I don't watch it all, I want to. I really really want to.
It appeals so much to my twin loves of cooking and the absurd. In prime time, millions of viewers are gripped to find out whether a contestant's Beef Wellington has reached perfect medium-rare consistency. Half an hour is devoted to a salmon weighing competition. Who can be first to fillet a Tasmanian salmon into six steaks of 180 grams each? The camera pans lovingly. The crowd goes wild!
That is television, my friends.
Contestants fall apart under the pressure. They weep as their pasta disintegrates. They dedicate their desserts to dead relatives. Meanwhile, television's greatest sex symbol, the dandy Matt Preston, stares intently into the eyes of trembling cooks as he rolls their gnocchi around his expressive mouth.
Last night, wearing a tight white suit with Cuban heels and raspberry cravat, he threw a pork chop over his shoulder to the imaginary dogs of his Tudor court.
That is television, my- did I say that already?
At least I have Ivy. She gets it. I let her stay up last week to watch some with me, and curled against me under a blanket, she said breathlessly ‘Imagine if that was you and me up there Mum. That would be amazing.’