Over a year ago, I would look forward to Thursday evenings in Kuala Lumpur because a new episode of Jamie's 30-Minute Meals would be aired on the TLC channel. Despite that I was far from happily cooking back then, I was intrigued by the idea of a complete meal served in half an hour, with dessert. The 40-episode series and its accompanying cookbook drew flak from people who paid £26 for the book only to realize the meals took 60-90 minutes to prepare.
Not that I am biased, but to be fair, one has to look at the situation objectively. That's Jamie Oliver we're talking about: the charismatic creative multi-tasker who flips meat fillets with his bare hands. This is one hyperactive boy-master who punctuates his cooking with large slaps and claps of the hands, tilting his body sideways at an angle while telling you what he's going to do next. I don't think he's on a caffeine high. I think he's a natural genius.
But then again, he has most ingredients prepared in advance for him, safe for the handful of fresh herbs he pulls from the pot. He blitzes his way through with the Magimix food-processor which someone else will wash thereafter. He sweeps crumbs off the worktop, just, like, that. And he walks his drained pasta, still dripping, between the sink and his cooktop. I'd be upset if Jamie Oliver was my husband. But I'd take his cookware and serveware in a heartbeat.
Not that I am biased, but to be fair, one has to look at the situation objectively. That's Jamie Oliver we're talking about: the charismatic creative multi-tasker who flips meat fillets with his bare hands. This is one hyperactive boy-master who punctuates his cooking with large slaps and claps of the hands, tilting his body sideways at an angle while telling you what he's going to do next. I don't think he's on a caffeine high. I think he's a natural genius.
But then again, he has most ingredients prepared in advance for him, safe for the handful of fresh herbs he pulls from the pot. He blitzes his way through with the Magimix food-processor which someone else will wash thereafter. He sweeps crumbs off the worktop, just, like, that. And he walks his drained pasta, still dripping, between the sink and his cooktop. I'd be upset if Jamie Oliver was my husband. But I'd take his cookware and serveware in a heartbeat.
