My senior year begins tomorrow, which means that the past week has been filled with the hustle and bustle of compensating for a somewhat lackadaisical break; as my last real summer vacation draws to a close, I survey the crumpled to-do lists that litter my desk, the unanswered e-mails that fill my inbox, the abandoned beginnings of dozens of projects that never really left the ground and I realize: I could have done so much more. This disappointing realization has led to a last-ditch flurry of reading, and my mind has been racing with the listless, unbounded energy that comes from finishing a good book — the desire to create something, to do something extraordinary with my life.

But that will have to wait, because right now I’m watching the Food Network.

Last Monday I moved into a new apartment, and when I turned on the television I discovered that I inexplicably had cable. (Should I be writing that in a public forum? I swear I had nothing to do with it, kind people at Time Warner!) Suddenly the world was at my fingertips, if by “the world” I mean SpikeTV, TNN, and BET. No longer would I bask in the loneliness of a yet-to-be-filled four-bedroom apartment; no, my chores, my seemingly endless cleaning and putting away of unidentifiable kitchen implements would be accompanied by the glow of a hundred rosy faces, each in his own sparkling kitchen.

I love the Food Network because I love food — not just the eating of it, but the entire life course that leads up to the eating: the harvesting, the processing, the packaging, the marketing and the cooking. To me, watching an infinite conveyor belt of Russell Stover fondants being enveloped in a glossy sheen of chocolate is the most beautiful modern art there is.

I also love the Food Network because it’s one of those wastes of time, like reading the Sunday Times or reorganizing one’s sock drawer, that can be written off as productive. Sure, I may be sitting on the couch inertly watching television, but it’s educational! (With the exception of Emeril, that is; in the brief moment between when he appears on the TV and when I reach for the power button on the remote, I can feel individual neurons flickering and then disappearing with little pops, like so many expiring fluorescent lights.) In the past week I have learned various useful culinary skills, including (but not limited to): how to make spun sugar, how to tell different types of clams apart, how to keep dried seaweed from turning brown when you cook it, and how to make 7-Up in a 7-Up factory (all equally valuable skills, I assure you).

Other things I have learned: that Marc Summers’ post-Nickelodeon career is depressing; that a disproportionate number of gourmet chefs are beautiful women with large breasts, all of whom seem to be adherents of the school of cooking in which food is tasted by being licked sensually off of your own (or someone else’s) finger; that, judging by the products advertised infomercial-style during the commercial breaks, a majority of the Food Network’s viewers are so inept that they cannot use a knife, cook a pancake, or realize that trimming their pet’s fur with a vacuum attachment is a very bad idea.

I’ve also learned that people are less interested in watching masters at work and more interested in being told how to do things as easily and quickly as possible. Witness 30-Minute Meals, which features the excruciatingly perky Rachel Ray demonstrating how to make a delicious and healthful meal (as healthful as something deep fried that contains a pint of cream can be, that is) in half an hour, and Semi-Homemade, which relies on the use of boxed cake mixes and premade whipped cream.

On the other end of the spectrum is Iron Chef, a show that makes the kitchen as inaccessible as possible. Chefs are apotheosized, backlit and placed on pedestals, and the words of the bedizened “Chairman” are subtitled rather than dubbed, as though his were the voice of God. Competitors who win regularly burst into overjoyed tears, and I wouldn’t be surprised if those who lost were required to commit hara-kiri. The atmosphere of Iron Chef at first glance seems at odds with a desire for simplicity in the kitchen, but the show is about theatre rather than cooking; people watch it for the goofy dubbing and inflated sense of self-importance, not for cuisine ideas. If I had unlimited supplies of foie gras, truffles, and caviar, I could probably make something taste good, too.

It’s interesting, this dichotomous nature of cooking. Although preparing a meal is easier than ever before, chefs have been elevated to celebrity status. The most recent trend in restaurants entails avoiding the traditional kitchen insularity, instead placing it center-stage, entirely visible to diners. Cooking seems to be joining the ranks of other “don’t try this at home” professions such as medicine and construction; it might be one of the last household tasks to do so. And as the familiar becomes foreign, it gains a fascination that it never before possessed.

And that means that I can blame society for my Food Network addiction. (Blame became “don’t try this at home” a long, long time ago.)