Well, it's over. The two-hour finale of MasterChef aired Wednesday night and, for those of us who actually watched the first season of the American version of the popular amateur cooking competition, we can get back to living our lives without montages, pre-commercial break cliffhangers, unnecessary narration, and music that sounds like a mash-up of Clash of the Titans meets I Am Legend. Gotta love Fox.
Whitney Miller, 22, a nutrition student from southern Mississippi, kicked young and old ass alike to claim the title of America's first MasterChef, $250,000, and a publishing deal for her own cookbook. Let's hope she includes her I-made-a-fried-chicken-breast-in-seven-minutes-'cause-I-dropped-the-first-one-on-the-floor recipe.
To win, Whit Whit had to beat gel-haired, laughing on the outside, crying on the inside David Miller, a 29-year-old software spaz bag from Boston. And that's where the fun began.
After shuttling the losers past contestants of MasterChef and friends and family of Whit Whit and David to the loft of doom -- where everyone is made to stand, look down, and cheer for two hours without a La-Z-Boy or cocktail in sight -- the two finalists got down to cooking their best appetizer, entree and dessert.
David starts douching it to the crowd until he gets a warning from Gordon Ramsay, who tells him to "get in the zone," which he should since he's decided to make Beef Wellington, a Ramsay specialty. Surprise, surprise, it's not perfect at the judges' table and David adds the extra ingredient of the tears of a clown as stone-cold Whit Whit stares ahead and is probably laughing (on the inside) like crazy 'cause she's going to beat him with a seven-minute fried chicken that she had to re-make 'cause she dropped the first one on the floor.
After what seems like an eternity of hearing the judges ask, "Is this MasterChef material?" (Like, how would we know, it's the effing first season?) Whit Whit is announced as the winner and Ramsay pops a bottle of champagne then tells her she can't have any (even though she's 22) while confetti falls from the sky and sticks like glue on David Miller's gelled-up horrible loser hair and Graham Elliot and Joe Bastianich grab their paychecks and run screaming out of the studio to get back to more worthwhile ventures . . . like anything else.
Cue triumphant music. The end.
