Earlier today, I was sitting in the dentist’s chair for what felt like a small geological era while my favorite dentist reconstructed one of my molars. The television above the chair was tuned to the Food Network, which meant I had two options: watch modern cooking television or stare into the bright light while Dr. Bert drilled into my skull.

Naturally, I chose the cooking shows.

Somewhere between the novocaine kicking in and the hygienist asking me questions I couldn’t possibly answer with a mouth full of dental equipment, I started thinking about how wildly different today’s celebrity chef culture is compared to the cooking shows I grew up watching in the 1980s.

Back then, cooking television was not a lifestyle brand.

It was public television.

Which meant the budget was roughly equivalent to the contents of a church bake sale jar.

Saturday afternoons in our house followed a very strict ritual. Rain or shine, winter or summer, Saturday was cleaning day. There was no negotiating with my mother about this. The house was getting cleaned, whether the United Nations approved of it or not.

Italian music would be blasting through the house while my sister and I were assigned various forms of domestic punishment: dusting, vacuuming, bathroom scrubbing, the glamorous stuff. My mother favored Italian opera or old Italian rock and roll, and after about three hours of this musical immersion, you began to feel like you had been transported to Venice and were floating down a canal while a gondolier sang dramatically about love and pasta.

By the time the chores were done, we were completely exhausted and ready to collapse on the couch and melt our brains in front of the television. Especially in the winter, when those gray rainy Saturdays made doing absolutely nothing feel like a major accomplishment.

And that’s when the cooking shows came on.

Now, for some kids, this might sound like torture.

For us, it was paradise compared to bathroom rags.

There was Julia Child, already a legend by the late 80s, towering over the counter like a slightly mischievous culinary aunt who might accidentally set something on fire but would absolutely laugh about it.

Then there was Jeff Smith, The Frugal Gourmet, who could stretch a chicken into what seemed like seventeen different meals. Justin Wilson, with his Louisiana cooking, overalls, and that deep bayou drawl that made everything sound like it had been simmering for three days.

And of course Jacques Pépin, who could debone an entire chicken faster than most people could open a bag of potato chips.

The point is, these people weren’t celebrities.

They were cooks.

Most of them weren’t Michelin-starred restaurant owners or brand ambassadors for luxury cookware. They were home cooks who somehow found their way onto public television and became beloved simply because they loved food and weren’t afraid to show it.

The sets were not glamorous.

There were no marble islands the size of Vermont.

Julia Child’s kitchen famously had mismatched pots and lids that didn’t quite fit. Her knives weren’t sculpted works of hammered Japanese steel that came with their own velvet carrying case. They were just knives. Functional. Slightly battered. Probably purchased at a garage sale sometime during the Eisenhower administration.

And the clothes?

Let’s just say wardrobe styling was not a major production priority.

Julia frequently splashed sauce directly onto the front of her shirt and wiped it away with whatever rag happened to be nearby. Sometimes that rag was technically supposed to be drying dishes.

Nobody cared.

The food was the star.

You could feel the joy of cooking through the screen. The shows weren’t trying to impress you. They were trying to teach you something.

Fast forward to today, and cooking television has turned into something closer to professional wrestling.

Chefs now enter the stage like gladiators. Dramatic music. Flashy editing. Studio kitchens that look like luxury car showrooms. Every knife gleams like it has its own lighting designer.

The chefs themselves often look like they’re about to walk onto a fashion runway rather than sauté onions.

Perfect hair. Perfect jackets. Not a single splash of sauce anywhere on their clothing. Apparently, modern chefs cook inside some kind of invisible gravy shield.

And don’t even get me started on the competition shows.

Somewhere along the way, cooking stopped being about food and became about winning. Contestants race around the kitchen like they’re trying to defuse a bomb made out of risotto.

Judges stare at plates with the seriousness of Supreme Court justices.

“Your beurre blanc lacked emotional depth.”

Meanwhile, I’m watching from my couch thinking, It’s butter and wine, calm down.

The old cooking shows had none of that drama.

No countdown clocks.

No eliminations.

No chef crying in the walk-in refrigerator because their microgreens weren’t micro enough.

Just someone standing at a stove, making food, explaining why butter solves most problems in life.

Honestly, there was something comforting about it.

Those old chefs weren’t trying to build empires. They weren’t launching product lines or filming 30-second social media clips of someone aggressively chopping garlic while electronic music blasts in the background.

They were just cooking.

And somehow that felt more real.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find a mismatched pot, splash gravy on my shirt, and honor the spirit of Julia Child the way she probably intended.

Without a single camera angle in sight and maybe a small kitchen fire – or two.