I’ll get to the cooking part in a second. First, remember how "bombing Afghanistan back to the Stone Age" was going to be the greatest thing ever for women’s rights in that godforsaken hellhole? Well, this dude, the editor of an Afghan women’s lib zine, has been sentenced to two years in the clink for daring to criticize those aspects of Sharia that punish women with whips and chains and death by stoning and whatnot. Apparently, the newly liberated and democratic Afghanistan is so liberated and so democratic that they are freer than ever before to vote that it’s "blasphemy" to view women as human beings.
Meanwhile, what’s the deal with this recent spate of "women suck" coverage? There was yesterday’s assertion that women can’t be advertising executives because they’re "crap," and now this chump alleges that women "can’t cook to save their lives."
OK, I get it. Some celebrity chef–a species of celebrity that, surprise, is always male and always assholic–has not only co-opted a traditional women’s skill and parlayed it into fame and fortune, but has asserted, from the rarefied aether of white male success, that women suck at the one thing the patriarchy insists that they’re born to do (while barefoot and pregnant). Nyah-nyah! Zing! In your face, ladies!
Big deal, another white male dick makes an idiot sexist remark for personal gain. People are discussing this stupid "controversy" all over the internet, and now we all know who Gordon Ramsay is.
But what I want to know is, why should women want to cook?
Home cooking, my young onions, is for suckers. It’s laborious, time-consuming, and tedious. It requires hours of research, shopping, hauling, toting, washing, prepping and scullerying. Forget the actual chopping and stirring and adding just the right amount of secret sauce. Forget the washing up. I ask you to consider the shopping part alone. To wit:
After studying your recipe, taking inventory of the pantry, and compiling your list, you get in your car and spend twenty minutes in traffic. At the store your cart has a broken wheel. It takes at least half an hour to collect all the stuff. Then you wait in line. You take all the stuff out of the cart and put it on the conveyor belt. Then you put all the stuff into bags. You put the bags of stuff back into your cart. You push the cart with its broken wheel uphill to your car. You take all the bags of stuff out of the cart again and put them in the trunk. You spend twenty more minutes in traffic. You repack the bags of stuff that have spilled out during transit. You take the bags of stuff out of the car and put them in your kitchen. You take the stuff out of the bags and put it on shelves. When it’s time to cook, you take it all back out again.
This is not art. This is mindless drudgery. You are a pack mule.
I subject myself to this mind-numbing toil only because I like eating food that doesn’t suck. If I had some dildo like Gordon Fucking Ramsay to whip up my roasted beet salad with orange vinaigrette and chevre croutons every day, believe you me, I would never darken the stoop of a supermarket, shuck an oyster, or caramelize an onion again.