Dear Rachel Ray,
You probably don't remember me. The main reason this is is because we've never met in person.
I, however, remember you.
It was a warm summer day in 2002, and I was home from college. As I was flipping through the channels, I came upon the Food Network, and, though I normally would have skipped by, I saw that the title of the show that was on was called 30 Minute Meals. I, having never really consistantly had to prepare food for myself in the past, was not immediately sure if this was a long or short time for food preparation, but I decided that this must be short, because why would you have a show about food taking a long time? I mean, unless you're a world class difficult food preparing show-off, in which case I salute you and would like to subscribe to your newsletter.
In any case, I left the tv on Food TV long enough to see you, and I was amazed. Here was a woman who not only seemed to enjoy quickly making food for two, but also a woman who was fairly young and attractive, with a cute little voice and an even cuter laugh that gave away the fact that she likely knew the difference between a jedi knight and a jedi master. It only took a couple of heartbeats for me to fall in love, which later caused some consternation in my friend group as I insisted on watching your show whenever it came on.
However, as time went on, I realized that maybe we weren't in fact meant for each other. The first thing that made me think that was the fact that you didn't answer my calls or reply to my letters. The second was the restraining order. However, your message didn't really hit home until I woke up in an abandoned restroom with my foot chained to a pipe and a note in my pocket that said that I was there to teach me to stop bothering Rachel. In addition, the note said that the person who did this to me wanted to play a game and that my only desperate gambit for freedom was to saw off my own foot.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I can't dance well.
But I digress.
In addition to the above, I found a new love in my life, and, in doing so, realized that former relationships, no matter how one-sided or imaginary, needed to be pushed aside. So, with a heavy heart, I packed away your cook books, and I accepted the fact that my meals would now likely take at least 31 minutes.
Flash forward to last week when I found an article in the news about you that said that you were going to put together soundtracks for different holiday occasions that Epic Records would then promote and distribute.
I was shocked. Could this person that I cared so much about in the past really have sold out?
When I went back to the Food Network to investigate, I saw that the number of your shows had multiplied, which was not in and of itself a bad thing as they all had something to do with food. However, when I caught a little snippet of your show, I was distressed to find out that the cute little voice that you once had now sounded suspiciously like the voice of Harvey Fierstein.
Now I don't mind you making a lot of money. Heck, if I made a lot of money, I'm sure that I would take advantage of it too, and then take that money down to the local gambling establishment and bet it on black, because that's just how I roll. Of course, by black, I mean that I would bet on a foot race of some kind where all of the competitors were of different skin complexions, because in addition to being a sell-out, I'm also a racist, apparently.
What was I talking about? Oh yeah.
I just mean, Rachel, that it seems like you have turned into a different person than I knew you to be. Now, I don't have any hard feelings, nor do I bear you any resentment in my heart. However, I think that it would be best if we were just friends, and by "friends", I mean associates, and by "associates", I mean that I would like to pull off an elaborate diamond heist with you.
While I know that you don't need the money, please rest assured that I could use it. I think that it's the least that you can do.
1 hour ago