Food porn

I came downstairs to find the flamenco guitarist sitting in the kitchen, engrossed in a magazine.

"What'cha reading there, handsome?"

He looked up at me, startled, as if he hadn't heard me come in. He put the magazine down quickly and wiped his brow. "Nothing. Nothing. Um. What do you want to do for dinner tonight?"

I picked up the magazine. It was my new issue of Bon Appetit.

"Why are you reading this?" I asked. "There's nothing in here for you."

Tony shrugged. "I'm…just reading the articles…" he said.

"Uh-huh." I shook the magazine lightly so that it opened to the page where it had last been clutched. There it was. A double-truck spread with photos of a Greek-inspired feast. Dried fig souvlaki. Roasted garbanzo beans with garlic and Swiss chard. Sun-dried tomato and garlic crusted rack of lamb.

I looked at my flamenco guitarist. "This is food porn," I said.

He shook his head, looking at me like a deer caught in the headlights. "…I..I don't know what you're talking about…"

I tore through the magazine now. He tried to grab it, but I snatched it away. I wanted to
know the truth. I needed to look it in the face. The words, the recipes,
the photos, oh the photos! They lay bare before me, brazen. Wanton. Fettuccine with brown butter and sage. Grilled bread with lemon confit and olives.

"You mean…you'd really want this stuff?" my voice started to quiver. "It's not real, you know. They fake the food. And they airbrush it. Real food doesn't look like this."

Spiced fresh orange and honey sorbet. Bittersweet chocolate pudding pie with creme Fraiche.  Caramel-banana bread pudding?!

"This is obscene!" I cried. "I can't believe you've been looking at this behind my back!"

"But Julie, I'm just a man!" Tony stood up and spread his hands apologetically. "I have needs! I'm weak!"

"I suppose my Tortilla isn't enough for you."

"No! It's perfect!"

"And, you know, I make a pretty decent paella, I think. But it looks like you want the professional stuff."

"Querida! It's not true! I love your cooking! You know I do!"

He sidled up from behind and held me close.

"But sometimes," he whispered in my ear, "sometimes, I fantasize about something more, it's true."

I gasped, outraged.

Hear me out, he says. "Why can't you try something a little more daring? Something a little more…complicated?"

"Like what?" I snarl.

"Like….what about that roasted garbanzo beans with garlic and chard? That looked pretty good. And you do good with garbanzos, yes?"

Well yeah, I nod. "OK. Maybe I could try that one."

"Or what about that rack of lamb? Look at the picture. Look at it!" He holds the magazine before me and I reluctantly look up at the juicy chops. "Isn't that gorgeous?" he says. "Think of what it must taste like. Can't you try it just once? For me?"

I admit that it looks beautiful. I admit that if I closed my eyes and had the recipe read to me, slowly and deeply, I could experience…oral satisfactions of the sort that can't be described in a family blog. I admit that maybe I've been too tame in my attempts to cook. Maybe I should try to be more…adventurous. More open-minded.

"But I've never cooked rack of lamb," I say. "I wouldn't even know where to buy rack of lamb. And what's trimmed and Frenched mean, anyway? Is that like a Brazilian wax?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I don't know either. Maybe you'd better start dating a chef."

"Baby, don't say that."

We sit pouting in silence. I am ready to concede defeat in this arena. I know that just about everything between the glossy pages of Bon Appetit is beyond my abilities, and who am I, a bad home cook, to even deign an effort.

But then a little voice inside me says:

Think of the blog fodder.

Damn it. I'm so weak. Stay tuned.

Tagged as: Bon Appetit, Food Porn, humor