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Showing posts with label Hell Hath No Fury. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hell Hath No Fury. Show all posts

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Sacrificial Lamb




















Well, possums, we cannot lie. We and Martha Stewart are delighted, albeit for different reasons, to see Ariane Duarte go. We were enchanted by the symmetry of the whole thing. Lamb was the first thing she cooked on the show, and also the last, but this time around, the rascal lamb did not redeem her.

As the Mitford sisters would have put it, we roared when, at Judges’ Table, an audibly exasperated Tom Colicchio said, “She doesn’t know how to butcher leg of lamb; what is she doing here?”

Uh, Tom, funny you should ask that. It seems to us that what she’s doing there is gathering wins and accolades from you, and being symptomatic of a season with a lower talent quotient. Y'all chose her; you should know.

Ariane broke down the lamb, yes, but she also broke down. Have a look at her exit interview, the good bits of which we’ve transcribed for you.

“Leah was not a good team player, and neither is Hosea. He’s a wimp. He’s crying, he’s nervous, nervous, nervous when we’re waiting to go to Judges’ Table, with his tail between his legs…I don’t hold grudges, life’s too short, and that’s how I left ‘em. And you know what? What goes around comes around.

Leah is a young girl [contemptuous laugh]. She’s a party girl, she likes to have a good time, she likes to be the center of attention. She can cook, no doubt about it. She’s never wowed me. And she’s got a lot of growing up to do.”

“Um,” Miss XaXa interrupted, “isn’t that the pot calling the kettle…”

“More like mutton addressing lamb.”



Sunday, December 14, 2008

The Heterosexual Woman’s Long National Nightmare Is Over: Sam Talbot Puts a Thumb-Ring On It




























Well, possums, while the heterosexual women of America may have wept blue-cheese-and-watermelon tears, we were relieved to read the news that Colombian arepa Paola Guerrero has finally made an honest man out of Sam “Not That Guy” Talbot.

We remembered the time after the engagement was announced this past summer, when a “hell hath no fury,” bedroom-farce fecal storm erupted in the comments section chez nos potes at Eater, ended up on Page Six, and led a little bird to send us pics of a, um, little Talbot bird (tattoos are such handy identifiers). The whole thing reminded us of this ad for the Chanel men’s fragrance Égoïste, except without the Prokofiev score, and with more naked photos emailed to pun-named blogs.

And so, if this marriage at least means an end to all such tsuris, then we are all for it. Good luck to everyone involved.

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