Food Fight

I’ve known Tom, my next door neighbor, for 30 years; in fact, I actually called him about the house that he eventually bought and turned into a miniature Tuscan villa. Tom looks a bit like an Italian version of James Taylor, and, like JT, is a musician. He plays guitar, bass, and saxophone. In his early years he played in a band called Samoa (“If you want to hear some more, you have to yell ‘Samoa’!”), and in his late twenties he formed another band, East Wind. We go back a long way, and I can't remember our ever having a serious disagreement.

Until now.

Tom has become something of a gourmet cook. He has one of those six-burner, cast iron stoves, and watches a lot of those shows on the cooking network. He often shakes his head sadly at my unimaginative fare, and slowly he has influenced me to pay more attention to the quality and preparation of the food that I eat. I even began, occasionally, to watch a program or two on the Food Network. If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be experiencing the discord that now afflicts us.

One recent afternoon we were talking, and the subject of the Food Channel came up. I innocently asked him about the woman who hosts the program Everyday Italian.

His eyes misted over and his countenance melted into a trance-like state. “Ah, Giada,” he said. “That is Giada, the perfect woman.”

“Well, she sure looks good on television,” was my coarse reply. “I really like those low-cut tops she wears, too. Sometimes I catch myself almost standing up to get a better look.”

He snapped out of his reverie. His eyes narrowed. “You stay away from my Giada!” he hissed. “She is my Italian angel. You are Irish. You can never appreciate her beauty or her recipes! Giada is mine! You can have Rachael Ray.”

“Rachael Ray?”

“Yes. You always liked those perky types, like Katie Couric and Meg Ryan.”

“But Rachael Ray is a girl. Giada is a woman.”

“Exactly. A woman. My woman. You are going to have to settle for 30-minute meals and perkiness. Real Italian cuisine and elegance belong to me.”

“Well, Rachael is cute,” I admitted, “but I can’t stand the way she says, “Pinot No-waahhh.”

“Deal with it. Giada is mine!”

Tom’s eyes glazed over again. “Even her name is perfect. Giada.” He seemed to go into a Zen-like state, intoning the mantra "Gia-daaaa…Gia-daaa...Gia-daaa...”

One thing I've learned: You have to pick your battles. What time is Rachael on?