I hope you don’t mind, but sometimes I use this column as a confessional. You don’t really mind, do you?
OK, so here goes: I’m fairly certain that I blew my best and last chance to be on the Food Network.
I’ve been slugging it out in the trenches of local and regional TV for a long time. When you do that, there’s always this little voice in the back of your head that talks to you about the big break you’re going to get when someone from the Food Network flies to Montana for a vacation and sees your little show, picks up the phone and throws money at you.
Well, that didn’t exactly happen, but as it turns out, I didn’t know I was auditioning for the Food Network until after I had submitted an application that I linked to in one of the e-mail newsletters I get and read on a daily basis.
I can’t believe I missed the phone call, too, but the caller to my voice mail sounded like there was such a sense of urgency and then – almost as a throw-away line – the voice said, “blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda … your application to be on the Food Network.”
Food Network? Is he kidding? The application didn’t say anything about Food Network, Mecca for Emeril-Rachel-Mario-Giadda wannabes.
I could feel my face turn bright red, and my mind began to race, because the second page of the application gave instructions for submitting a video sampling of my work, including a self-produced video application in which I was to tell the casting people all about me and why I’d be perfect for this “project.” See – they still didn’t say Food Network.
But the man in my voice mail said, “Skip those submission details. I want you to send it directly to my e-mail.” That’s why I deduced that there was a sense of urgency to this. Obviously, he had read my application. Could it be that he said to the other casting agents in his office, “Let’s see if this guy’s as good on tape as he is on paper.”
Mind you, I have nearly 300 episodes of my weekly program, “Kitchen Guy,” on tape and in computer files. But they really didn’t want to see those. Here’s what they wanted to see:
“With a ton of energy, introduce yourself with your name, age, where you’re from and your occupation.”
Simple enough. Well, yeah, if you’re not running the camera yourself. It reinforced for me why I’m in front of the camera and not behind. So I take back every nasty thought I’ve ever had about camera operators, and I hereby promise I’ll never ever doubt their direction again. Well, at least for the next time we’re in the studio.
“Tell us a story about the craziest food experience you can think of. Give us something funny and outrageous.”
OK – how about the time when I was taking a boatload of dirty pans and dishes to a kitchen under the grandstands of an arena where I was doing demonstrations and behind me I heard – click click – click click – and a faint voice calling, “Kitchen Guy! Oh, Kitchen Guy!” And I turned around to see an elderly blue-haired woman with a walker (that was the clicking) trying to keep up with me because she wanted an autograph. Was that funny or outrageous? Or was it one of those deals where you had to be there?
And while I’m trying to cram all of this stuff in, I’m cooking Huevos Rancheros simultaneously (this is where I also gained newfound respect for my camera guys). I’m concentrating so hard on telling my story and being bubbly and energetic and funny and interesting, that I sort of get the food in the picture. Sort of, but not really.
Truth be told, readers and friends, I’m sure I blew it. Under deadline pressure, I put together a product that, if I were a casting agent for Food Network, I wouldn’t hire me. Seeing the footage I shot myself, I probably could have gone out and bought more ingredients and shot it again. So I further confess that I do not know why I submitted what I did.
That’s why I’m certain that I blew it.
So I guess you’re stuck with me for at least another 100 columns.