My Husband is Haunted

For that matter, every man who cooks/grills/bakes in my presence is haunted. By two men I've never met. Two men who's food I would have to pay to eat, in the event I could even get a reservation.

When I see someone press down on a succulent specimen of meat while grilling, my heart palpitates, my eye twitches and my brow beads in sweat ... "What are you DOING?!?!" I screech like a wounded banshee. "Bobby Flay says to never, never, never squish the meat; it forces the juices out. Don't you WANT juicy meat?!?!? "

The same goes for Emeril Lagasse. Man, if Emeril said so ... in my mind ... well, it's just plain gospel. Not just by the definition of gospel as being "the good news", but in that EMERIL WROTE THE BIBLE OF COOKING. Screw Julia Child (may she rest in peace,) that Spago cookin' weirdo Wolfgang Puck and Miss 30 minute meals Rachel Ray ... Emeril Lagasse is THE MAN. Not because I like a nice andouille sausage (I don't) or because I too, believe that butter & garlic should grace every dish (some desserts, too!) but because he uses the word "BAM!" and cooks with pork fat like it's going out of style and he's got a warehouse full. It's that simple.

My culinary tastes are no more refined than Homer Simpson. I am not, nor will I ever be, a wine connoisseur (cheap is good, thanks.) Prosciutto? Please, if they haven't put it on pizza, there is no point. Nope, my reasons for believing in Emeril's culinary prowess is because he's entertaining and cooks with things that are bad for you that I can find at the grocery store. And Bobby Flay? Yeah ... I think he's cute.