Whenever I think of Italian, I actually think of Giada. I remember the first time I saw her – it was in paper version of the New York Times. I mean, who even reads the paper version of the Times anymore? Nobody. They’re bleeding cash. Anyway, it was the cover of her book. She was wearing a blue shirt that matched her eyes, and it was the kind of photo that takes your intestines and whips them around with an eggbeater. There’s a certain cheesiness to how attractive she is – an obviously exploitative quality that always makes me feel awkward about staring. When she’s cooking while I’m at the gym, I’ll watch her whip up a cheesecake, or some stuffed shells, or whatever it is she is making. She narrates her motions with a eager, wide-eyed zeal that ever-so-slightly feels scripted. Then she’ll replace the “real” parts of food with words: oh, it smells amazing! Mmm, this is delicious. It’s funny how on TV, chefs are forced to be self-congratulatory to compensate for you not being there.

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