“I love bacon and chicharrónes, but I could never eat pork uterus,” I confess, wincing at our 60” Insignia television screen.
“Foot soup doesn’t sound great, either,” my mother replies, squeamishly shaking her head. “But you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”
And I have. As a finicky eater who happens to be queer, Black and disabled, I wouldn’t touch durian, duck tongues or most of the basket items on the Food Network TV show, “Chopped.” Yet my family has been watching it faithfully for nearly two decades.
The reality competition features four chefs who transform baskets of mystery items into an appetizer, entrée or a dessert. Round by round, one contestant is eliminated, or “chopped,” until a single winner emerges and is awarded $10,000. The foods are extreme and run the gamut, from silkworm pupa to a whole goat head.
In our Valley Stream, Long Island home, my youthful 80-year-old, African American mother and I — her Gen X son and facial clone — comment on each episode like armchair judges.
“Greg’s dish really looks appetizing,” Mom says, holding a bag of sea-salt Popcorner chips, “but he forgot a basket item!”
“Uh-oh,” I reply, extracting a Ritz cracker from its sleeve. “You know what that means?”
“He’s getting chopped,” we sing in unison, laughing.
My 92-year-old West Indian father, a US Army veteran with Alzheimer’s-related dementia who once did half of the cooking, now observes quietly. Though, we do pepper him with questions to keep him engaged.
“What do you think of eating nutria, Dad?”
“I…don’t know.”
“Me, either! Rat meat is gross!
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His responses, while brief, are as meaningful as the on-screen action — more so, even, because every moment he can respond to us is a precious one. The few words he pieces together help anchor us the way they did before dementia transformed our lives.
My mother, younger brother — who watches when he’s not busy bartending — and I share caregiving duties for my father, who requires round-the-clock care. Mom handles the daytime with help from an aide, while Jeff and I split the nighttime, when Dad restlessly roams the house. “Chopped” helps fill the downtime between chores, meals and other primetime events.
I began following the series in 2009, because of a crush on Ted Allen from his days on “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” (He seems genuine, knowledgeable, and funny: an irresistible combination for me.) And though his passion is food — and mine is scrutinizing it skeptically — I forgive him, because the show has become a minor obsession.
When I introduced it to my parents in 2010, they thought I had lost my mind.
“You, the picky eater, watching anything to do with food?” my mother asked.
“Yeah. It’s the creativity. I really enjoy seeing what they make out of the funky basket items they get. It reminds me of my art-school days. And Ted is so much fun!”
“And who is this Ted person?” my then-well father inquired.
“Ted’s the host — and the cutest dork!”
The program has been our family ritual over the years, especially now, as we weather the havoc dementia continues to wreak on our lives. Its reality format allows for perfect projection and escapism: no coordinating specialists and home care agencies, certainly no paternal tantrums. For the hour the show airs, we leave our stresses behind and focus on enjoying each other’s company.
We also love catching the cooking tournaments, from “Alton’s Maniacal Baskets,” where quirky foods are chosen by superstar cook and presenter Alton Brown, to “Name Your Price,” where the chefs are given three products and must outbid each other for a fourth. My personal favorite is the “Military Salute” challenge, with the enlisted competitors hailing from the US Navy, Air Force, Marines, and Army. In the finale, the officers team up against the judges, illustrating the power of working together, like our family.
Spring savings are here!
And they win.
Seventeen years of watching “Chopped” has left its mark on our nuclear unit: Mom and Jeff are still finding new ways to elevate hot dogs — Dad’s current culinary obsession — most recently mincing and serving them in a spaghetti bolognese. And I’m still persnickety but exposure to so many extreme foods has broadened my palate. I’ll always prefer Mom’s barbecued chicken, fried chicken and French fries, but I have branched out, trying an array of new, relatively tamer foods, ranging from albacore tuna to zucchini.
The program’s most enduring lesson for us has been one of persistence. Much like a high-stakes competition, caregiving forces us to confront the insurmountable daily. And we triumph over the chaos by staying present, flexible and focused on the tasks at hand, whatever they may be.
I still won’t eat pork uterus, though.
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