![]() It’s the same one my parents gave me when I was 18 and arrived home after bailing myself out following a high-noon arrest at my high school’s soccer field for smoking weed behind the utility shed. I was, and still am, a big time Gordon Ramsay guy. Upon seeing an episode of another Ramsay cooking show targeted at home cooks, MasterChef, during which he coyly asked a fellow judge if he was “turned on” by the beaver a contestant had cooked, it was all over. Landing on Fox, I caught an early episode of Ramsay’s cooking competition show Hell’s Kitchen and immediately became transfixed by his obsession with risotto and beef Wellington, tendency to scream expletives at greenhorn line cooks, and insistence on taking his shirt off when the opportunity presented itself. I first became acquainted with Ramsay while flipping through the channels about a decade ago, back when plugging a cord into the cable jack in your wall would still bring you all the basic channels. I’ve never been to one of his restaurants, purchased one of his cookbooks or tuned into one of his MasterClass lessons. Hell, I’ve never even looked up one of his recipes online for free. But I will watch the shit out of Chef Gordon Ramsay television programming.
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