The Jackson Pollock of the kitchen
Which is why I have little time for those fastidious matrons like Paula (Where did she borrow that hokey accent from?) Deen or Delia Smith.
Instead give me Jamie Oliver or Keith Floyd anytime. I'm not sure if Floyd made much of an impression in the US; nor does he have much profile in the UK anymore.
But you have to hand it to a guy who drank more wine while he made lunch than he put into the recipe. Half way through filming Floydie appeared half cut and was sloshing sauce everywhere.
I once had to call him to ask him about maritial breakdown number 140. I fully expected to be told to shove my questions where the sun doesn't shine, but Floyd was in a talkative and animated mood, launching into a diatribe about his ex that I couldn't print.
Likewise I see myself as a spontaneous cook. I'm the Jackson Pollock of the kitchen, throwning around spices, herbs and other ingredients with abandon. If I drink too much pinot noir and the cat ends up in the casserole, that's all part of the creative process.
Inevitably the kitchen ends up looking like a war zone, leading to numerous attempts by my wife to wean me off cooking.
Tonight's recipe was a very simple blue cheese pasta with walnuts. Everything went according to plan and the cat is still around.
My daughter took one bite and proclaimed: "This is disgusing."
But like all art, it's in the taste of the beholder, so I didn't take it personally.
Just banned her from watching SpongeBob for a month.