I'm a big Rachael Ray fan. Seriously.

I'm the kind of person who swims against the tide. I think bacon is disgusting. I'd rather read the Post than the Times. And I think Rachael Ray is one of the coolest folks on earth.

Of course, I'm not totally crazy. I won't try to pretend Rachael doesn't have her faults. She's way too polished, too calculated, too easily amused. She whips up meals out of standing rib roasts and ice cream, then declares them to be healthy and cheap. She says it saves time to wash your produce when you get home from the market, so you won't have to wash it when you're cooking. Frankly, this is preposterous. It doesn't actually save time, since you'll be washing it all regardless, and there are plenty of foods like mushrooms and strawberries that ten minutes after contact with water turn into inedible lumps.

The fact is, I don't think she washes her produce at all. Sure, I can't prove that her parsley or her apples or her red peppers have never seen the inside of a sink. With some food, though, you can easily tell when it's been washed and when it hasn't, and these things clearly haven't been touched. How'd she clean that celery without pulling off the stalks? How she get the dirt off those leeks without chopping them up? And the cabbage: did she wash all the leaves really thoroughly, then carefully reattach them to the head?

But hey, I'll admit it: this is just sour grapes. I'm insanely jealous of an attractive, talented woman with worldwide fame. In fact, I'd kill to be like Rachael, but the only thing I know anything about is sex. I'd carry my toys around in one big armful, I'd say "Yum-O!" before I put anything in my mouth, and I'd tell guys to put their condoms on first thing in the morning because that'll save a hell of a lot of time.