A Love Letter To MasterChef Australia
Image via MasterChef
By Christina Karras
I love reality TV. From The Bachelor to Real Housewives – you name it, I’ve probably seen it. I love the drama, the romance, the tears and most of all the escapism. But there aren’t many reality TV shows that wield the same power as MasterChef Australia.
When the show first aired back in 2009, it was a cultural reset.
Over 7000 people auditioned for the show in pursuit of cooking on national TV. I was 11-years-old at the time. It was a bygone era, when to follow a show you liked you didn’t have the luxury to stream it or record it – you actually had to watch it religiously and nightly.
It was prime after-dinner viewing. I can remember the first season’s finale showdown between Julie Goodwin, and present-day icon Poh Ling Yeow. Or when a baby-faced Callum Hann lost to Adam Liaw. Certain contestants left lasting impressions on me as the seasons went by, including a formative crush on blonde, surfer-bro contestant Hayden Quinn, and a love for Reece Highnell and Brendan Pang’s warm friendship.
One of the most endearing qualities about reality TV for me is its ability to make people’s dreams come true. Seeing people abandon their day jobs in finance, IT or law for their fanciful, true love of cooking always moved me, no matter how cliche.
Few shows have been able to provide Australian audiences the same beloved and consistent embrace across the years. MasterChef holds its own against a backdrop of reality shows that thrive off conflict and gossip to survive.
Instead, its 11 year run has been fueled by a wholesome community.
Contestants often scream advice and words of encouragement from the gantry to those in an elimination. In a challenge this season, Emelia Jackson tasted the bulgogi beef Amina Elshafei was preparing because it wasn’t halal. A small gesture between the pair who were competing against each other, but it revealed the heart and soul of the show – sharing food with a genuine spotlight on our multiculturalism.
In a time where Australia still grapples with diversity and racism, with constant debates around what it means to be “Australian”, MasterChef serves as a reminder that food is one of the rare places where minorities are truly celebrated.
Growing up in a Greek family, food has always had a cultural importance to me. Gathering around a home-cooked meal that my grandma (yiayia in Greek) prepared for hours is a privilege – and a connection to our immigrant past that I try not to take for granted. And while I’m a second-generation Australian, I still pushed back on my heritage sometimes as a kid with the desire to be just like everybody else. I detested going to Greek school on Thursday night while my friends took dance classes and I shied away from revealing my pink sandwiches with taramasalata dip inside.
So there’s something incredibly touching seeing contestants put their family’s history, sacrifices and culture on a plate with a smile. Migrant stories always make me cry and migrant stories told through food hold the same weight.
Poh said it well in one of her final cooks recently: “I realised I had let go of so much of my culture trying to assimilate as a migrant kid, that I had to find that thing that reconnected me again,” she said. “And food became that thing.”
When the show caught up to present-day social distancing, it made saying goodbye to the eliminated contestants cold and sad. Watching an elbow bump replace a hug felt like a sign of the times.
I couldn’t help but tear up as Melissa Leong gave them the “we’re so proud of you” talk, or when Jock screamed their name as they wistfully left the double doors of the MasterChef kitchen for the last time.
Safe to say I wasn’t the only one. Almost 2 million viewers watched pastry-queen Emelia beat close friend and pasta-girl Laura Sharrad, and things were particularly emotional when Emelia couldn’t resist breaking social distancing protocols, throwing her arms around the devastated runner-up. It’s a strange feeling I think we’ve all gotten to know.
Watching MasterChef across lockdown has been one of the small joys I’ve been able to hold on to tightly, along with the act of cooking itself.
I’ve been enjoying the slow burn of cooking a meal, the sense of accomplishment once it’s done (or the angst when it doesn’t work out right) and the connections we have to these recipes. Among my first plans for when lockdown is over is a visit to my yiayia’s place, to cook together.