Oh, and I forgot to tell you about my new celebrity crush. Now, like anyone, I worship the obvious hotties on silver screens, well-lit and oiled up monkeys who regurgitate lines and attend awards shows. I’m not an idiot.
But occasionally, I develop obsessions with a bizarre array of public figures. I have no explanation for Roberto Benigni, George Stephanopoulous or Oliver Platt. Christ, I was even on a Steve Buscemi kick for awhile.
I know. I know. Disturbing.
Well, there’s a new member to the club of men I find oddly wonderful and attractive. Let’s all welcome Mario Batali. How I am able to overlook his ponytail and orange clogs is beyond me. I guess I’m blinded by love. But watching this man cook while he talks about it is pure heaven, not to mention his Vespa and array of fabulous NYC restaurants. I once had the pleasure of dining at Babbo in The Village and let me just say, this man can sauté a serious mushroom.
I know he’s married and gives his children annoying overly Italian names which I would never allow, but goddamn it, I once made his spaghettini with breadcrumbs and golden raisins and was in pure heaven. I almost felt closer to Mario, just cooking his food. And now, when I see him, I just envision myself in post-coital bliss, sitting on a kitchen stool wearing nothing but his giant chef’s jacket as he makes me scrambled eggs and tells me how fabulous I am.
Then I would sneak up behind him, grab a knife, and chop that stupid ponytail off…