Emeril, Eat My Dust. BAM!

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The show would never lack for topics. My holiday special would focus on how to keep well-meaning guests out of the kitchen: "More wine, Aunt Hattie?" In "Refrigerator Roulette," I'd try to figure out which leftovers are still safe to eat. Smell along at home! I can picture a stream of cameos in which I bring celebrity chefs resoundingly down to earth. I'd make Emeril Lagasse do the dishes. (What happens to the ones he dirties so exuberantly in the studio? Does he throw them all away? BAM!) When chef Mario Batali visits--that's "Molto Mario," of Food Network fame--he'd better bring a mop. I tried his advice to let food fall on a plate "like windblown Zen mastery," and it fell on the floor.

Reality Bites might stand a chance at getting a spot on the Food Network; look at the success of mtv's The Real World. The problem, alas, would be in attracting viewers. My natural audience, women with children, wouldn't make time to watch me cook for my family--they barely have time to cook for their own. And when they do tune in, after the kids are in bed and the dishwasher's loaded, they're not looking for a mirror, they're looking for a window.

Heck, if I weren't in it, I might not watch it either.