There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that MasterChef has begun to smell very much like the back-end of an unwashed horse.
And so, in an effort to charge "the colt from old Regret" ahead in the ratings race, producers desperately did as they have so many times before. They whacked all contestants on top of a windy mountain with a campfire and screamed “Well, cook something”.
Last night Marco showed his fondness for the Australian literary canon as he reminded the chefs assembled in Victoria's Snowy Mountains that this was the place where history had happened. To wit, the entirely fictional account of a pursuit The Man from Snowy River was the history.
The history which, in fact, was inspired by Banjo Patterson's experience as a horse breaker some several hundred kilometres north in New South Wales and happened nowhere near Mansfield and its pork and its trout.
But, truth has never been the foundation of a program that talks about food dreams, legitimises the cravat as an accessory and encourages people to “reinvent” perfectly acceptable desserts. So, we let this newest ignorance slide and settled in as Sarah looked set to captain a team.
Personally, I quite like Sarah and applaud her fondness for the taste of French classics and of blood. Her eyes narrowed. Her bosom heaved. She set about constructing a menu that sounded every bit inedible as it was complex.
Meantime, the dude with the beard whom I always somewhat lovingly confuse for a guy much younger than me whom I once pashed in a Brunswick pub started to say things with his mouth.
(Look. I don't know what they were as I haven't had sex in a really, really long time and every time I see Rhys-beard all I can think of is how I'll probably die alone. But, let's have a guess, shall we?)
He offered some inane exposition about cooking a deer and how he “wasn't ready to go home”. He said things about “food memories” and expressed his fear that he would not win the challenge. Which he didn't. OOOPS SPOILER.
Oh, look. Who cares? We've all stopped listening to this nonsense, haven't we? All I know is that his beard was moving up and down and Cassie said something about a crumble and I haven't had sex in a really long time.
Do you think Rhys would be responsive if I followed him on Twitter? He has beautiful eyes.
Oh, beautiful they are but not nearly so steely as those determined little jewels set so evenly in the gorgeous head of Sarah who set about ruining pig and fish with flavour, flavour, FLAVOUR.
So much flavour, in fact, that MPW was worried that there was “too much going on”.
And, clearly, Marco is a man who fears complexity. He is unable to use an atlas for a start. (Dude. It was the man FROM Snowy River not AT Snowy River. Can you not crap on about our bush ballads? Is that too much to ask before you return to England hoping against hope that none of your countryfolk ever see your indolent, embarrassing display on MasterChef Professionals?)
Sarah talked about “boning” the trout a lot and I kept thinking about going back to that pub in Brunswick. I though about using the term “boning a trout” as a euphemism for all the sex I don't have but turned my attention, briefly, instead to this excruciatingly boring failed redux of a program that nobody but me is watching.
Anyhow, the “boning” wasn't going well. Then Rhys said something about osso bucco and I started planning our wedding and writing my married name, Mrs Helen Badcock. (I didn't make that up. That's his name)
Fire. Wind. Singed meat. Insufficient heat. Clancy of the Overflow. Really, we have all seen this episode before; although with significantly less Rhys.
Fifty people apparently inured to food poisoning tried dishes from both teams and apparently got the least indigestion from a cassoulet provided by the Red Team.
Apparently, this means the green team will have to offer up Rhys Badcock to me as a sacrifice or risk being eliminated altogether.