To say that celebrities don’t impress me would be untrue, because when I’m-in-the-same-room-with-Martha-Stewart (yep, happened to me, Black Pearl, Newport, RI) a giddy out-of-body feeling comes over me. I’m in the vicinity of a star!
I suddenly feel special, as if I’ve been graced by a blessing, when someone points out, “Look-look! Practically right next to you, behind that body guard at your elbow, it’s Priscilla Presley!” Uh-huh, it happened at the New Hampshire League of Craftsmen’s Fair, Sunapee Mountain.
When I almost touch a celebrity, I’m impressed, as if something important happened to me. I don’t know why I’m effected this way. Celebrities are just people. And too often, they’re not even the kind of people I like.
I can hardly imagine inviting a celebrity into my sanctuary-home. Home is where I go to get away from self-serving, social-climbing-name-dropping competitive kinds of people and their popularity contests. Home is where I go to be with the people I really like. Celebrity-status is everything I go home to hide from.
Bobby Flay is the exception. Bobby Flay, I’d invite in.
I can’t say I like him, because how could I? I don’t know him–at all. All I know is his media image.
But I really, really hope that Bobby-Flay-the-media-image is the same as the Bobby Flay-the-actual-person. Because I’m totally impressed. And either he’s actually that way or he’s the world’s best faker and I’m no judge of character (but I think I’m a pretty good judge of character).
And I say either he’s a real Mensch, or else he’s a very convincing poseur. In any case, I’d open the door and let him in, if he knocked.
It could happen, right? Bobby Flay often shows up and surprises people. And I’m pretty sure that everyone who watches Throwdown, watches it for the same reason I do. I want to hang out in the kitchen with Bobby Flay.
I’d invite Bobby Flay in to sit at my table, and even to meet the whole extended family. We would all play Euchre or that confusing but fun Marbles/Card game my aunt always drags out when we all get together.
Here are the reasons Bobby could come to my house:
- Bobby is confident (in a totally un–obnoxious way) because he knows what he’s doing. There’s no arguing with the fact that he makes good food. I like people, who are good at what they do without being arrogant, whether they’re cooks, firefighters, poets, scientists, diplomats or pig farmers.
- Bobby is a gracious winner. I detest gloaters. Even more, I detest people who put down the people they just defeated.
- He’s also a gracious loser, and that’s even more impressive than being a gracious winner. He doesn’t pout. He doesn’t call the judges biased. He never whines about the contest being rigged.
- Bobby seriously enjoys cooking, which probably has a lot to do with why he’s good at it. I really like people who love what they’re doing. And I absolutely love people who love to cook. (Can somebody please explain to me what’s up with people who hate to cook, yet they love to eat–how does that work?)
- Bobby moderates his passion for eating and his food-philosophy is sane (watch this series). All things in moderation is also my basic and uncomplicated philosophy for living well.
In other words, he’s the kind of guy I’d gladly introduce to my aunt and to my grandchildren, and we’d hang out in the kitchen, talking and eating. What would we cook? If you were hanging out with Bobby Flay and Ken and me, what would you want us to cook up for you?