Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Food Network Liveblog Marathon, Part 4 – 12:01am to 4:30am

Welcome to the Food Network Liveblog/Running Diary, Part 4.  (Part 1 over here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here.) There are 14-1/2 hours down, with 4-1/2 to go. Just a fun reminder: I’m checking comments constantly, and will highlight favorites as we go along. So chime in! Can’t wait to read.

RSS subscribers, a quick note: these posts are being updated every few minutes, and subsequently, won't appear on the feed in full. They are on the homesite, though, if you'd like to peruse.

P.S. As with the BL Liveblog, this will go backwards, with the most recent commentary appearing up top.

Folks, 19-1/2 hours later, we are DONE! It's been a trip. I'm going to bed. Hasta la pasta.

End of show.
3/4-SLEEVE SWEATERS: zero - Sunny stuck to overalls
HEALTH QUOTIENT: astronomic - garlic is good for you, y'all
VERDICT: Who am I? How did I get here?

It's roasted garlic hummus now, which has an intrinsically hilarious texture. You guys don't know what you're missing. But it's okay - no worries. You can stay asleep. That's why I'm here.

Sunny is currently wandering through a tremendous warehouse, stacked floor-to-ceiling with barrels of dried garlic. I assuming the Ark of the Covenant is also in there somewhere.

I can taste garlic in the air in my apartment all of a sudden. This means either this show is really effective, or there's an old pizza stuck in my walls. Both are equally likely.

Now she's standing next to a 5000-pound garlic mountain. There are 5000 vampire jokes just waiting to be made here. I'll be a gentlewoman and let y'all handle it.

Sunny is back at the garlic factory. You know how you come home sometimes smelling like work? That must be a genuine work hazard for people who work in a garlic factory.
There is a vat of Bloody Mary mix being made on my television. It looks like the scene from Nightmare on Elm Street when the bed eats Johnny Depp. Did you know - and this is not a joke - that he was credited under the name "Oprah Noodlemantra" for his cameo in the sequel? ABSORB THIS KNOWLEDGE, YOUNG PADAWAN.

Was that story not riveting enough? My judgment of interesting stories is a little off right now. I'm 20 seconds from babbling about the coldness of my nose.

In 2001, my job required that I pull into work right about now. New York is always eerily silent this time of the morning, but I did see a guy get jumped from my cab once.

Food Network is pushing the White House Iron Chef HARD. Do you think Mario and Emeril will accidentally bump tummies on the floor? Like jolly dueling Santas? Because oh, how I'd giggle.

Did you know: industrial garlic bulbs are peeled by something called a clove blower. In college, the words "clove blower" had a very different meaning. It usually involved a Phish album.

Sunny kicks off the show in an open field. If Martin Scorcese taught me anything, the only people in open fields at 4:32 in the morning are about to be whacked by the mob. Run, Sunny!

THE SHOW: How'd That Get On My Plate?
THE HOST: Sunny Anderson
THE CONCEPT: Unwrapped, but with fresh food and no ... Marc Summers.

End of show.
3/4-SLEEVE SWEATERS: I forgot to count. It's cold in here.
FRUGALITY QUOTIENT: medium - she mentioned some numeric thingies.
HEALTH QUOTIENT: low - what?
VERDICT: 4:29am

We're now at Halibut Point restaurant, where Rachael is eating CHOWDAH next to FISHAHMEN. All this trip is missing is a Kennedy.

Commercials at 4:24am in the morning:
AARP Medicare Supplement Insurance
Hair transplants
... that's it. It's me and balding old people awake right now.

Next, Rachael goes to Gloucester, the Massachusettsiest of all the Massachusetts-sounding towns in all the world. It is wicked Massachusettsy. Red Sox.

"Locals are enchanted with the cuisine." This phrase is not used in Brooklyn very often. Here, it's more like, "Locals will not shiv you over the cuisine."

Was that mean? I don't care. It's 4:20 in the morning.

Rachael is in Portsmouth (literally: "there is port in my mouth"), New Hampshire (literally, "there is a shire in my hamp"). She's at the Muddy River smokehouse, where men are men and women are also men.

My heat's off. Is my heat always off now?

Back to Rachael, who's eating lobster at the Algonquin. It is, as you might imagine, "ahhhb-so-LUTE-ly dah-LISH-ous."

Holy cow! It's a commercial for The Clapper! This has to be at least 15 years old. Is that a cassette player in there?

Also on TV at 4:07am:
CW: Frasier
ABC: News
CSPAN: An old man complaining
TV Guide Channel: an infomercial for Dermawand, the stick you put on your face.
PBS: An old man complaining

I woke up with "Do They Know it's Christmas?" in my head. Tonight, thank god it's me, INSTEAD OF YOOOOOOOOOU.

This narration is far too chirpy for four o'clock in the morning: "For a true Kennebunkport experience, cast your net at Mabel's Lobster Claw!" It's only missing a cheerleading pyramid.

THE SHOW: Tasty Travels
THE HOST: Rachael Ray
THE CONCEPT: Rachael eats her way across the Northeastern seaboard.

Okay. FN is airing repeats (Dinner Impossible, Paula's Cookie Swap, etc.) straight through 4am. SO, I'm gonna break for a few hours and continue this then. That's not cheating, right? I don't think so. Either way, thank god I JUST DRANK A CUP OF COFFEE.

It's now 12:17, and I don't have a bit for this yet. Unless this running bit that I have no bit is actually the bit. Oh crap. The Le Cordon Bleu commercial again. Have I fallen asleep without knowing it? Is this a nightmare?

Okay, maybe not that.

Oh man. I'm gonna need a different angle for this one, fast. What if we made up a song to the tune of Bob Dylan's "The Times, They Are A-Changin'"?
Come gather 'round firemen
Wherever you drink
And admit that you left your
dish in the sink.
And accept it that soon
You'll be forced to think
About whose chicken
you're pickin'.
So you better start eatin' 
'Cause it'll be done in a wink. 
For the Throwdown, it is a ... goin' down.

THE SHOW: Oh no ... the same Throwdown we saw three hours ago.
THE HOST: Still Bobby Flay
THE CONCEPT: Still the Chicken Cacciatore thing.

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