(Full disclosure: I originally posted a version of this Tyler Florence tribute on my other blog. However, it seems appropriate to post here, as it is TV-themed. Yes, I am lazy. Don’t judge me. Don’t you judge me.)

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Dear hunky celebrity chef Tyler Florence,

As I watch your hit Food Network show, Food 911, I’m not sure what I want to pounce on more: you or your Yellow Tail Snapper Baked in a Salt Crust.

Every week you appear on my screen, roasting ducks, sauteing vegetables, and I have to admit that I’m only half interested in what you’re cooking. How am I supposed to concentrate on your frittatas when you’re standing there with your impeccably gelled coiffure, your million-dollar smile and those shoulders, which stretch as far as the horizon.

And my obsession with you Tyler (can I call you Tyler?) is strange, because you are not my really my type at all. You rarely sport a 5 o’clock shadow or any manner of scruff. Additionally, despite being a sensitive caretaker, you are decidedly an alpha-male (I enjoy the betas, myself) — your confidence in the kitchen gives you an air of masculine control. Most noticeably, you are devoid of any real eccentricity, opting for the all-American vibe. You wouldn’t shop at Abercrombie and Fitch (too much frou frou homoerotic fratwear), but I’m pretty sure you signed up for the American Eagle credit card so that you could get 15% off your first purchase of that dark blue fitted sweater (a large) that hangs so nicely off of your frame.

You work out, don’t you Tyler? But you don’t want to make a big thing of it, so you hide it under your stylish duds. You’re so unassuming, the way you hide your powerful arms — the way you reassure and inform that professional idiot you work with on “How To Boil Water.”

Oh, Tyler! I know that you like girls - it’s one of my life’s greatest disappointments. But I can at least watch your show and think about what it would be like to spend cozy weekends in our cabin in western Massachusetts, marinating boneless skinless chicken breasts and playing Scrabble with the lesbians that live next door (that Denise always leaves the triple word scores open!). And if I get home late from work, you’ll leave a plate for me in the fridge with a post-it note on top of the Saran wrap, saying that you hope I had a good day and you’ll see me in the morning.

But I digress.

We may never have a real-life romance, but at least we’ll have our regular dates at 3 p.m. eastern time. Tyler Florence, if I can’t watch you teach smitten Nebraskan housewives how to properly stuff a bell pepper, then is life really worth living?

Farewell,

Dan.