JUNIOR MASTERCHEF

Just when you thought you had gotten over the drama.

Just when you thought your humble little life couldn’t get any better!

Just when you thought you wouldn’t have to see any more horribly clashing fashion from Matt Preston, no more ‘what I love about this dish…’ comments, no more bald midgets yelling ‘Boom! Boom! Shake the room!’, no more obvious product placements, no more spoilers through poorly controlled production, no more corny catch cries, and no more Gary Mehigan trying to hide his bald spot through frontal shots only.

It’s back, baby.

Only smaller.

To think, I was so happy not seeing Curtis ‘how hot am I?’ Stone, in the middle of a supermarket telling me to cook like a Masterchef cooks.  Curtis; I don’t want to cook like a Masterchef cooks, because they cut and burn themselves too often, cry through the intense stress of boiling an egg, and seem totally confused about where they are, what they’re doing and that they’re even there in the first place.

And I had gotten over Dani.

Extensive therapy has helped me deal with the fact that although top international chefs, along with Australia’s (apparent) best amateur cooks, make me feel like I can’t boil water, that I’m quite comfortable with the food I consistently throw onto the dinner table every night.

And it’s helped me deal with the loss of Dani.

In saying that, of course I’ll still watch Junior Masterchef. 

Yes, there’s nothing like kicking my self confidence in the nuts when I see an 8 year old produce a perfect sponge, and I produce Frisbees.  Yeah; that’s just fucking great.

I think back to when I was 8, and honestly; it’s all a blur.  Seriously.  I can’t remember anything.  I didn’t have siblings to bounce things off, which would help me remember things.  I didn’t even have imaginary friends!  Nothing!

However, what I didn’t do, was spend time in the kitchen learning to clean, separate, prep and cook a fucken mud crab.  Then serve it on a bed of jasmine rice with a subtle satay sauce, garnished with fresh chilli and sliced shallots.  I bet we’ll see that thrown up during the competition.

I didn’t understand the concept of ‘balanced flavours’ (cheese, strass and beetroot on white bread was heaven on a stick to me), nor did I know what protein, stock, sauté, creaming or poaching were.

No, I was too busy pinching my mother’s Anzac biscuits and playing with Lego, like a normal fucken kid.

However, I’m now starting to question my parent’s decision to let me lead a normal life, and not tie me to the kitchen bench and hammer the skills of international Michelin star winning chefs into my head.  I shouldn’t have been reading golden books!  I should have been reading Michel Roux ‘Sauces’, and Julia Childs ‘French Cookery’ and ANYTHING by Margaret Fulton! How dare they neglect me so!  Damn you making me play with Lego!  Damn you!

So, as I settle down to watch the new series of Junior MC, I steel myself for the freak show. These children who have been primped and preened to perfection, and pushed out into the public eye, in the hope they that will be able to secure their future and enjoy their cooking dream.

With their hair pulled back or spiked with more product than there is cream in an éclair, with their bright tops, white aprons and colourful safety knives, running around a fantasy ‘pantry’ that looks like something out of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, with baskets laden with produce, to prepare the dish of their dreams, the circus will begin.

Some of these children, who can produce dishes from memory that I couldn’t even cook with the recipe in front of me, can barely reach the bench top!  Let’s not forget one simple thing above all else: these kids can actually cook.

And they achieve it all whilst their adoring parents look on. 

As I sit there watching, flinging my Frisbee sponge across the room during the ad breaks (because I can’t stand Curtis, and need something to distract myself from him), I will wait for that moment when those poor kids are told that their Masterchef dream is over. 

Let’s be real about this: these kids have a passion for cooking; no doubt.  However, at that age, they really don’t understand the concept of a ‘culinary dream’.  They don’t understand what’s really involved in getting there.  They don’t understand that in 10 years’ time, they can do a TAFE course, and they’ll be there.  Fuck Masterchef, and the spotlighted stress that goes along with it.

What they do understand, is that this is a competition, and there can only be one winner.  If they fall along the way, they have lost.  They didn’t come ‘top 10’, or ‘top 5’; they lost.  The end.  Bring on the tears.

At least when these kids cry, they are not crying from the ridiculous pressure that the adult Masterchefs have to endure.  They’re crying because their little hearts are broken because they lost.

My heart will break for them, but only until we return from the next ad break, because by then, I, like everyone else watching, will have completely forgotten them.

And for the winner?  Complete glory? Well, they win a $15,000.00 trust fund to put toward their culinary dream.  Call that complete glory if you like.  Personally, I think it would be less traumatic on the kid to take out a small loan and shove it in a term deposit for them.  That’s just me though…

So, in 10 years’ time, when their win on Junior Masterchef has been forgotten, they’ll finish their apprenticeship (like normal people), and start out on their own.  Just another chef in the crowd.  If George and Gary are still around, they may offer them a job as a kitchen bitch or something, just to help them along the way.

They’ll need something to cushion the blow that reality will provide, because when you grow up, no one gives a fuck that you were once a Junior Masterchef.  You have to find your way through life.

At the rate our economy is going, the $15,000.00 they won will be worth $10,000.00, and possibly afford them a second hand Kia, which they can sleep in at night, and sell sandwiches out the back of through the day, outside the Channel 10 studios that handed them their ‘fame’, all whilst wearing their crisp, white Masterchef apron; the only souvenir of their triumph.

Cynical? Hellza yeah. 

As a parent, I don’t know if I could put my kid through the stress of that competition. I believe that the producers structure it so that the kids are nowhere near as stressed as the adults are, because apparently, adults can handle it.  (I think the adults would disagree though, just quietly…)

I imagine that there are two types of parents in the Junior MC arena: the first will get white line fever, pushing their kids, yelling instructions from the sidelines, fist pumping all the way.  The other will be sitting there thinking ‘what the fuck have I agreed to here?’ as they watch their children struggle through.

Have you spared a thought for last year’s winner?  Do you remember who it was?

Isabella.  The lovely Isabella, who defeated her twin sister on the way to claim the top prize. I wonder how she has adapted to life post Junior Masterchef.  She’s possibly in high school now, dealing with the challenging life of a teenage girl, her victory a distant memory, because life simply moves on, and she’s too young to really cash in on her success.

I just hope she’s still cooking, and her dream of opening a café with her twin sister becomes a reality in the future.  See, I remember.

I was seriously waiting for her cook book to come out, because I would’ve bought it.  That would have been one cook book that I may have had a shot at creating something out of.  Maybe.

You know what I like most about Junior Masterchef?  Anna Gare.  I love Anna Gare.  She’s cute, spunky and funky, and I would jump the fence for her.  She’s gorgeous.

She also cuts through the testosterone, and provides just enough maternal warmth to melt the sugary sap that flies around the Masterchef arena.  She makes Mehigan, Colambaris, Preston and Moran bearable.  Just.

I wonder if this season will bring us cute, funky kids with spiky hair and cool names?  Prissy princesses (like Lucy from last season – couldn’t stand her), or big rough kids that just love cooking shit (like Jack)?  See, I remember.

So, bring on another season of Masterchef Brats.  I’ve already booked in my sessions with the therapist, who I pay with Chocolate Hazelnut cookies from the Julie Goodwin (1^st Australian Masterchef) cookbook.  Fair trade.

Happy cooking.

Peace out.