Rachael Ray, my dinner hooker

As much as I say "barf-o" to her perky "yum-os," I have to admit the frightfully popular TV host's quick and reliable meals can't be beat.

By Mary Elizabeth Williams

Read more: Mary Elizabeth Williams, Life

Photo: Gustavo Caballero/Getty Images

Rachael Ray at the South Beach Food and Wine Festival in Miami Beach, Fla.

Oct. 14, 2006 | There is an entire industry built around the loathing of peppy media chef-phenomenon Rachael Ray. Google up "Rachael Ray" and "hate" and you'll uncover an enthusiastic community devoting considerable energy to "Raytard's" manic je ne sais quoi and dubious fashion sense. But does the "Joker faced" celebrity chef really merit that much scorn? This is a woman who, as far as we know, has never thrown a phone at an assistant, evaded her taxes, launched into any unfortunate, blood-alcohol-elevated tirades, or rapped at the Teen Choice Awards. If there ever comes a day that Rachael Ray is hospitalized for exhaustion, it'll be a safe bet that she really is exhausted. Why then is there such a thriving cult of antipathy toward the woman Forbes recently identified as the second most trusted person in America?

Because there are two kinds of people in the world. There are those who leap out of bed smiling and eager to start the day, the kind who come up with team-building exercises for their departments, who stay out late into the evening line dancing because it's just so darn fun, and who wake up again the next morning still smiling and eager to start the day. These are the kind of people who sell T-shirts on their Web sites that say "Yum-O." Then there are the rest of us, the ones who see people like that and want to barf-o.

Rachael Ray, the turbocharged personality who has built an entire career on the notion that anyone can pull dinner out of their ass in under a half-hour, has, in the past year, gone from high-profile basic cable star to full-blown media juggernaut. She is the face of her own magazine, the author of a string of bestselling cookbooks, and the host of approximately a bazillion Food Network series. In September, her eponymously named daytime talk show launched with the highest ratings for a syndicated debut since Dr. Phil hit the airwaves four years ago. Earlier this year, Time named Ray one of the 100 most influential people in the world. She has become, to crib from her bottomless supply of stock phrases, a big ta-da.

Hers is a quintessentially self-made American success story. Small-town girl and specialty food buyer hits upon the idea to teach "30 Minute Meal" classes as a way of moving the merchandise. The classes lead to TV appearances, which lead to cookbooks and a Food Network gig, which lead to guesting on "Oprah" and subsequent total media domination. Ray has no formal culinary training, and a brash willingness to embrace pre-washed produce and canned broth. She has boasted that she's completely unqualified for every job she's ever had. Unsurprisingly, she pisses a lot of people off.

Unlike some of her other Food Network compatriots, Ray brings no seductive charge, no "food porn" element to her work. Jamie Oliver, Tyler Florence, Giada De Laurentiis and their ilk infuse their personas with the erotic decadence that comes from good cooking. Their newest colleague, Nigella Lawson, owes much of her fame to languorous finger licking. Ray, in contrast, is all brisk and bouncy. Even when she posed for FHM a few years ago in a series of skimpy outfits, her wholesome smile, her cheerful lack of subtext when nibbling a strawberry, remained firmly intact.

Ray does not exist to wine you and dine you. She is here to wham-bam thank-you-ma'am you, an abundantly useful strategy. I may find her personality considerably off-putting. I may feel guilty for turning to her again and again at that certain hour of the evening when I need gratification. Rachael Ray is my dinner hooker -- fast, reliable, a sure bet. Her critics can bemoan the meteoric rise of the warp-speed dinner; they can turn up their noses at her "sammies" and burgers. But not every meal can be a truffle-infused work of art. Most nights, you're just grateful for a little culinary reach-around.

Therein lies the secret of her success. Perhaps she's a star because that breakneck energy and interjection-riddled vocabulary are genuinely appealing, although if that's the case I may have to move to another, far more dour corner of the globe. I prefer to believe she's made it despite the relentless ebullience, that she connects because she understands that for a whole lot of people, getting dinner on the table is a major accomplishment. You work late, you take care of your kids, you have no time to shop. You contemplate choking down a solitary Luna Bar or picking up a supersize bucket of trans fats at the drive-through. Rachael Ray says there's another option, and with her chipper, can-do attitude, she demystifies cooking. If she weren't sugarcoated to the gills, her message would be almost too tough to take. Suck it up, she's saying. If I can do it, you can to it. Take one lousy half-hour and get a hot meal together, for yourself and for your family. A real meal, preferably the kind with some lean meat and fresh vegetables. No expensive equipment or specialty store ingredients; no fancy French terms or techniques. No excuses.

Next page: She may grate on my nerves like a block of Parmesan on a blade, but dammit, shes my fix