I Hate Everyone, Except You(20)
Production meeting.
Rehearsal.
Hair and makeup touch-ups. Change wardrobe.
12:15 p.m.
Shoot The Chew, Episode #759 “Fast ’n’ Fresh.”
Air Date: 3/16/15 (You don’t have much to do in this show, but Alonna and her sister will be in the audience.)
1:15 p.m.
Wrap The Chew.
2:00 p.m.
Stop by office.
Pay bills.
Post on Facebook and Twitter about new web content.
Meet with Jill re: Macy’s Orange County event.
Call Kate to discuss styling for new TLC show.
SIGN INCOME TAX EXTENSION FORMS!
4:00 p.m.
Workout.
6:00 p.m.
Dinner with Emily (You put this in the calendar yourself. Do you need me to make reservations somewhere?)
9:00 p.m.
Pick up dog from sitter.
The day appeared to be rather typical, though my eyes did hover for an extra half second on Paula Deen’s name, just enough time for a quick flutter of dread to wash over me. Nothing too ill-boding, more like the kind of feeling you get when you’re reminded that later in the day you have an appointment for your annual prostate exam.
I’ve never really been a fan of Paula’s, but that’s the way life is. Maybe her essence whispers sweet nothings to your very soul. I, however, find her shtick more annoying than a hangnail. And just for the record, it’s not about her Southern heritage or Southern food in general, because I’m quite fond of many Southern people and Southern food can be freakin’ delicious. Before I met Paula, my distaste for her was probably due to her seeming, in my opinion, very one-note—and that note is butter, y’all! Then I met her in person during the The Chew’s first season and, while I really wanted to like the woman, her good old-fashioned “charm” struck me as completely artificial. Then came her N-word scandal, and after that she admitted to her fans that she had Type 2 diabetes—two years after her doctors diagnosed her but only after securing a lucrative diabetes drug contract, and in the interim continuing to push an unhealthy lifestyle. So, eh, I’m not a fan. And I get the feeling she knows it.
I have little, if any, say regarding the guests who appear on The Chew because I am a host and not a producer. And even though I like the show’s producers very much, they have a history with Paula, having produced her show on Food Network for many years. So when she’s booked on the show, I say hello and welcome her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. That’s what I’m paid to do and I do it relatively convincingly.
Today Paula made her entrance in the second-to-last segment of the show, teaming up with Michael Symon to demonstrate her recipe for chicken wings, while I sat nearby with my other cohosts, Daphne Oz, Carla Hall, and Mario Batali. When it comes to presenting a recipe clearly and efficiently, Michael is quite possibly the best in the business, but the interaction I witnessed between him and Paula made absolutely no sense. He might as well have been interviewing a crack-smoking unicorn about how to make a rainbow sandwich. Seriously. I knew less about how to make chicken wings after Paula’s demo than I did before it even began, which means she was actually able to destroy existing neural pathways in my brain pertaining to the effects of heat on poultry.
During the commercial break, our off-camera kitchen team placed a huge platter piled with three different types of goo-covered chicken wings on the table in front of the hosts. Evidently, this was the finished product of all that nonsense, as if somehow during the three minutes between segments, Paula magically became lucid and just whipped up lunch for thirty people.
“What’s on these things?” I asked Daphne, who sat next to me. “I don’t know what the hell just happened.”
“Me either,” she said. “I think the pile on the right is peanut butter and jelly sauce. The ones on the left have green pepper jelly. The ones in the middle . . . I have no idea.”
I rolled my eyes. I was experiencing one of those very rare moments when I didn’t like my job but—and I want to make this very clear—knew that in the grand scheme of things it was really no big fucking deal. I wasn’t banging rocks in a diamond mine. I wasn’t brokering a peace deal between the Koreas. I wasn’t administering the polio vaccine to poor kids in Appalachia. My job was to smile for the camera and eat a goddamn piece of chicken. And I had every intention of doing just that.
As the commercial break ended and Michael reintroduced Paula to the viewing audience, I speared a wing off the platter with my fork and put it on the small plate in front of me. And after using my knife to scrape off, as discreetly as possible, some of the green pepper jelly sauce, I realized I had a crucial decision to make: Should I cut the meat off the chicken wing and bring it to my mouth with the fork I’m already holding? Or should I put down the fork and knife and eat the wing with my fingers, which as we know is the usual and accepted method of eating chicken wings in the United States of America.
I was at a fork in the road with a fork in my hand.
Screw it, I thought. I’ll just quickly put some of this chicken in my mouth . . . with a fork.
Well, that didn’t escape the preternaturally blue-eyed gaze of Miss Paula Deen. “What are you doin’,” she drawl-screeched, “eatin’ that with a fork and knife?!?”
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
Rather than explain my reasoning—the fork was in my hand, the wings had too much sauce, it was nine thirty in the morning, and these wings are about as appealing to me as a shit sandwich—I decided to laugh it off.