Thanks to pregnancy, my body refuses to fall asleep until three a.m. When this first started happening a few weeks ago I just lay in bed for four to five hours cursing and praying alternately for sleep to overcome me. But I’ve finally accepted this inconvenient development and have turned to late night TV.

There’s not much on past midnight but there’s one channel I can always count on—the Food Network. They shamelessly broadcast food porn 24 hours a day to all races, colors, and creeds. During the sunny hours I can resist the shows rich with tenderloin, chocolate sauce, and creamy dips. But I’m ashamed to admit that after my family goes to bed my resistance falters and I slip into a saliva-induced trance brought on by the effortless creation of decadent foods.

Like everything else in Hollywood, The Food Network does not strive to depict cooking as reality. All ingredients are pre-measured into spotless ramekins, the salt is never accidentally excluded from the recipe, and the second you open the oven to insert your roast a perfectly braised one is waiting to be pulled out.

The finished entrees have been airbrushed to disguise any imperfection and there is no such thing as limp lettuce. It’s every woman’s fantasy.

Since falling prey for these depictions of dining, I’ve grown disgusted with my tiny apartment kitchen. Why can’t it be more like Nigella Lawson’s immaculate sun-filled dining area? The frozen chicken breasts in my freezer are pathetic compared to Emeril’s cuts—plump, juicy, and still warm from the slaughter.

Rationally I know it’s not fair to compare, but I’m slowly growing apart from my dollar-store cooking utensils. They just can’t give me what I need.

These shows typically last half an hour. It’s a steady building of anticipation. Layer upon layer of ingredients, textures, and spices. The side dishes are quickly prepared and put to rest in the fridge. The accompanying wine is selected, there are only a few minutes left of the program, will the meal come together in time? In the five seconds that the camera zooms in to the chef, the counter is magically cleared and an impeccable Williams Sonoma place setting appears. The expensive teak serving bowls are presented, filled to the brim with succulent eats. This is the moment we have been waiting for—the first bite.

Will the chef approve of the dish? For some reason I hold my breath every time, waiting expectantly. Did the cake bake evenly? Were the fish fillets left too long under the broiler? Will he crunch an eggshell that fell into the lady fingers? But every time the chef lowers his eyelids, smiles subtly, and pronounces the meal “fabulous!” This is food fantasy at its finest.

Tonight I prepared quesadillas yet again for my family. I feel guilty knowing that while my husband and daughter sleep tonight with such an inadequate meal greasing up their insides, I will be lying on the couch devouring hour upon hour of soufflés, crab cakes, jambalaya, and parfaits. But I can’t get help if I don’t want it. For now, I relish this late-night addiction even though I know full well that it will destroy me as a cook. But I was never that great in the kitchen anyway. Maybe it’s better this way.

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Sarah Flake is the author of a humor blog at hollywoodflakes.org that has approximately 10,000 readers a month.