Story Time: Why I'm Not Currently On Fox TV

"The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

-Mark Twain

MasterChef's sixth season began this past week, and already there's been a couple good episodes. The top 20 have been chosen, and it's probably going to be a great season. But I wanted to be there.

MasterChef is a pretty neat concept, to me. You have tens of home cooks that all compete for a big ol' prize (cash, cookbook deals, getting to see the well-worn geography of a notoriously angry Scot's face), during lots of team battles, fights, box challenges, etc. But the thing that stands out to me about this show is that it's all home cooks, like you and I. To be a contestant, you cannot have worked in a kitchen professionally. There are some other weird scenarios that make you ineligible, but that is the main one that seems to keep it pretty fair. So imagine my interest and surprise when I realized that I could not only try out, but that auditions were happening in two nearby cities.

This is the story of my audition, and the bitter realization that you don't see my face on Fox for a few months.

I don't really know how I found out about the audition. I think I had happened to google the show, and Google's newsfeed was like, "OH HEY AUDITIONS NEAR WHERE WE STALK YOU". Curious, I saw the audition locations, and saw that two were happening near me. I was unable to hit the one in LA, but the San Diego audition was close, and I figured, "why not?"

"FILDI"

Filling out the forms for this thing was interesting. Though some people tell me I'm a great cook, I don't think I'm the best. It is not unusual for me to pull out my phone during an episode and ask "what the hell IS a cacciatore?" (It's a meal served "hunter-style". Yeah, I don't get it, either). But I learn, try to emulate, and see what people are doing on the show. But to be on the show? Shoot, I figured it was a long shot. But who knows if they'll do a Season 7, so I figured I'd try. The forms have lots of questions, like "where did you learn to cook?", "what are three dishes you'd say are your signature dish?", and "have you ever been convicted of a felony?". I can't remember if that last one was actually on there, but I assume it was. PS, the answer is still "no".

Once I submitted the forms, with their exhaustive questions about whether or not I had wedged my hand in a waffle iron as a child (I don't know, probably), I figured I just needed to show up with some food, charm some casting crew, and then GTFO. NOPE.

I'm not usually a stressed out person. I don't make big situations out of nothing, and I don't like to bring attention to myself. But apparently the casting crew wants to talk to folks ahead of time. So imagine my surprise when I was called and interviewed over the phone!

The questions weren't tough -- they were basically the same ones on my submitted form. I was told that I sounded great on paper and on the phone, and they wanted to schedule me for a specific time, to "help with audition flow". I later found out that this number was a) bullcrap, and b) apparently I wasn't charming enough to be a VIP, putting me at the front of the line. Damn. I was thanked for my time, and was told to have my dish ready on Saturday!

That's sort of when panic set in. I had to wow some judges who I had no idea of their preferences, tastes, experiences, etc., and had to serve some heavensent meal completely room temperature, after it sat for a few hours. No, it wouldn't be appetizing, but I had to think about what to do. I knew something with a sauce wouldn't work unless I kept it warm, anything crispy had to be properly cooled so it didn't get soggy, and I needed to have a complete thing on the plate.

So, scraping the edges of my mind (it's a pretty empty area, folks), I figured that I would make a chevre-stuffed breaded chicken, with purple mashed potatoes and asparagus. It sounded like a pretty good idea. And maybe it was? I'm not sure, but it didn't get my butt on TV, I'll tell you that.

This was something that people always enjoyed when I had them over. Everyone loves the novelty of "stuffed" anything. Stuffed mushrooms, stuffed chicken, stuffed salmon, stuffed crust? Hell yeah, who doesn't like stuffed things? Communists and rapscallions, that's who.

So, the day before my audition, I figured it'd be a good idea to do a dry run. In retrospect, this would have been far smarter to do a few days earlier, but I was young, reckless, and had nothing to lose. Other than pride. So much pride.

As I got to the grocery store, I had decided that I wanted to do purple potatoes; they always please, the color is a nice addition, and people tend to eat with their eyes. But in the past, I had used baby purples, giving a vibrant lavender color once cooked. But the store had none -- only huge purple potatoes. The produce guy wouldn't let me cut into one, since I'm dumb enough to have not known whether or not the big ones were also purple inside (they are). So I leave with everything but potatoes, and go to two other stores to find these stupid purple potatoes. After calling my Uncle's partner, who is a far better cook than I (I would call him a chef. I am no chef. This is not 'Average Chef'), he informed me that yes, indeed, I was an idiot, and the large purple ones were also purple inside. So, since I was freaking out, I had the girlfriend get me the potatoes while I prepped.

Prepping this was pretty easy. I needed to boil potatoes, stuff a chicken breast with chevre, bread the breast, and then brown/bake until salmonella wouldn't kill me or a judge, and then make some potatoes. And steam asparagus. Not hard.

I will forever be the worst plater in the world.

Once finished, I plopped the potatoes down, rested the chicken on top, and threw some asparagus on the side. It looked like crap, but I was first going for taste. And, overall, it was great! It needed some tweaking in the potatoes and breading for seasoning, but overall was pretty dang tasty. I had made a sauce for the asparagus, that tasted great. And looked like crap. So I went back to the drawing board, and had a pretty good idea for a lemon/wine sauce for it the next day. I went to bed that night, knowing that I'd have to be up waaaaay early to get this done.

There were a few obstacles in this whole debacle. I knew that it would take me around an hour and a half to get down to the audition. I also knew that I would be given one minute to plate the whole shebang. So I needed everything ready and rearin' to go. There was no cook time or anything, so I'd have to make this thing pop with very little effort. If I kept my chicken in a container, it would steam itself, causing the breading to go to mush. So I had the chicken rest for about an hour on the counter, then once cooled, put it in a container and put only paper towels on top. That would allow some air to keep it crispy, and still protect it a little. It wasn't a bad idea. But I was nervous as hell carrying this thing. Potatoes were launched into a small container and kept a little loose and runnier, so they'd firm up at room temperature, but not turn into bricks. The asparagus was blanched and kept much shorter than my practice, and the sauce was 1) delicious, and 2) put into a thermos.

Pictured, Average Cook, chicken in hand. Not pictured, sheer terror

As we got there, we parked the car, and got inside the San Diego Westin. Looking around, we saw a small entry table, and a small line in the waiting area. I figured that I was good, and would be in an out within an hour. WRONG. As I filled out more forms, told them the name of my dish ("Uh oh, I was supposed to name this thing?"), and got into the waiting area, I learned that there were a lot of people ahead of me. Around 100 people. Who went in 15-20 at a time, and spent 45+ minutes in each round. The math was not in my favor.

Naturally, most people are really excited to be there. The have wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, mothers, sons, families, abuelitas, whoever with them. And then there are the few, the proud, the VIP.

Apparently if you're well-known, have a good blog, you have a certain attitude on the phone, you slept with a casting director, whatever, you get to be a VIP, and go to the front of the line. Must be nice. Some VIPs were obvious why they were there (loud, obnoxiously talking about being a VIP, telling every last detail of their story to every person who had the misfortune of sitting next to them), and some were nice. But the type that got me the most? The nosy entrant. There were some very obvious humblebraggers in the room who would ask you twenty questions about your meal, and seem very friendly. And then tell you that they had some whizz-bang recipe of their own. And then promptly walk away without telling you squat. I watched this one lady, named Red Dress, who came in, plugged in her crockpot, loudly let those around here know that she was "smart enough to come prepared with a hot meal", and then start wandering. Luckily, I stayed clear of her, and pretty much kept to ourselves.

Our waiting room, and soon to be Hell on Earth.

Things seemed to be moving along, and were going well. One group goes in numerical order, and once they're gone, the next bunch of entrants line up. Yes, it was slow, yes it was taking longer than I thought, but it could have been worse. And true to form, it went that direction pretty quick.

I've never stayed at a Westin, but I hear they're nice. I would assume that they'd have a great maintenance crew that could fix any issue with little effort. But when you see three of them enter a room, grimace, and mumble something about "air" into their radio, you start to worry.

Turns out that the A/C went out. So, this conference room, with its hundred people, would slowly get warmer and warmer. And warmer. And moister. And gross. Oh my God, so gross.

A lot of people like food smells. I like food smells. I enjoy smelling food, because it probably means I'm going to eat food. But there is even a limit to my love of food smells. Turns out, it's when a room gets humid, and slowly raises in temperature. Uncle John's famous trout fingers that he brought to showcase? Oh my god, no. This guy behind us was talking to another contestant, and was describing the fish he brought. When he asked "do you wanna see and smell it?", he wasted no time in grabbing his tupperware, opening that thing with the speed of an Abrams tank dropped out of a plane, and released the beast. Hot, musty fish wafted through the vicinity, and I started to lose my mind.

Kelsey got a whiff of it, and immediately had to leave the room for a half-hour. It was that bad. And as more people checked on their foods, it got worse. And worse. And worse. I started to worry that my own food was going to be poisoned by association.

Eventually my number gets called, and I go and sit in my little waiting line with some nice ladies. An odd number of military wives, but the conversation wasn't bad.

Me, approx. 30 seconds after getting my number called.

To calm my nerves, I chatted with the ladies in line with me, and we did some good ol' gossiping about the other contestants we had seen. We looked at each other's food, and I was relieved to find out that though I was stressed, I was nowhere near as bad as this lady sitting next to me. Her husband would occasionally come out of the hotel bar, ask her if she had "screwed the pooch, yet?", and make her more nervous. She had a pinwheel of pork that sounded pretty good. Another contestant was doing tuna poke, and everyone else was being secretive. You know, as if there was time for me to see their recipe, steal it, and do a better job. What.

We get called in, and they explain everything that's about to go down. We get 60 seconds to plate, and then we wait for the judges. One will be judging us as people, out methodology, and how well we interact, and the other will eat our old food and make mouth noises while asking a few questions of their own. There would be no cell phone usage, the room needed to be quiet, and we were to follow instructions.

I was near the end, and patiently waited. They asked me a few questions, mostly things that were on the form, so I was comfortable. They tasted my food, and gave very little feedback to me.

I was told I had a good sauce on the asparagus, that my potatoes' seasoning was on point, and that my chicken was moist and had good flavor. So I was excited that, hey, maybe I did something right for once. No, it wasn't the chocolate cake that was made by some guy who "grew up in Switzerland, and learned to bake from the local patisserie", and it wasn't the flaming whatever down the line, but I had good feedback, and figured I might have a shot.

They would call numbers to stick around, and those individuals would need to be back for a second day of auditions. My number was not called.

I didn't make it. But that's okay! We stood around for a few more minutes, ate each other's food (oh my God, that tuna poke), and then went our separate ways. Better luck next year.

Do I see anybody from my group on the show? Nope! Am I surprised? Nope! There were so many contestants in so many cities, it's no surprise that a lot of folks didn't get in. But will I step up my game this year? If I can audition, heck yes! I'd love to try out again.

But the big success here is from a question the casting agent asked me while eating my food. "Okay, what's the food dream?" I hemmed, hawed, and realized I hadn't really thought about it. $250,000 to do whatever I wanted with if I won, but what was my food dream?

"I want to teach average people how to cook well. A lot of folks I know are in their mid-20s, and can't boil a pot of ramen to save their lives. I want to teach average people to cook like me." She seemed pleased with my answer.

A week later, reflecting on my audition and what I said to her, I registered AverageCook.com, and started writing about my recipes, kitchen adventures, and all that. If you've stuck along this far, thank you. If you're new, also thank you. I have some new plans and ideas for new articles outside o recipes for the site, and I hope you enjoy them in coming months.

You can follow many of my cooking adventures on Instagram with #averagecook, and don't forget to like and subscribe to the site on Facebook. 

-AC