Just what you’ve been waiting for: a story that just about out-pervs “Hot Tween Nurses.” Speaking of waiting, this one made the rounds of some other blogs a short while ago, but we figured, hey, let’s try not to subject our readers to a full eyeball scrub more than once a month.

But now it’s May, so here goes. Some of us are fortunate to have lovely memories of growing-up milestones with Dad. Mine taught me to ride a bike, to drive, to whistle with a blade of grass. You may recall a father-daughter picnic, a father-daughter heart-to-heart.

And how about a Father-Daughter Purity Ball? This past spring brought us the fourth annual such event sponsored by Colorado Springs’ Generations of Light Ministries; according to Focus on the Family, other cities and organizations are following suit.

Call these balls “Virginity Pledge: The Musical.” Or “Pretty Baby,” without the actual auction. Dolled up in tiaras and pearls — or perhaps abstinence jewelry — the girls (some of whom look young enough to wish they were home watching “Dora the Explorer”) are escorted by their dads to this creepy cotillion that, as far as I can tell from the photos, includes some sort of interpretive dance, as well as “a memorable ceremony for daughters to pledge commitments to purity and their fathers to pledge commitments to protect their girls.”

Here’s daddy’s script: “I, [daughter’s name]’s father, choose before God to cover my daughter as her authority and protection in the area of purity. I will be pure in my own life as a man, husband and father. I will be a man of integrity and accountability as I lead, guide and pray over my daughter and as the high priest in my home. This covering will be used by God to influence generations to come.” OK, “high priest?” Also, I’m guessing the part about “I will pay for my daughter’s therapy in perpetuity” is in the fine print.

I mean, for one thing, I’d want my dad thinking hard, really hard, about my virginity even less than I’d want to think about my parents having sex.

Here’s what one 11-year-old (or adult publicist) for the Ministries had to say: “The moment I put my hand in my father’s, I felt like a princess. In those six precious hours, I believe I grew in relationship with my father more than I ever have. I knew it was my night, and I treasured every minute of it.” I probably don’t have to spell this out for you, but replace the word “father” with “boyfriend” (or, to be charitable, “new husband”) and … eeuw.

Want some more? “How can you measure the value of your eleven-year-old looking up into your eyes (as you clumsily learn the fox-trot together) with innocent, uncontainable joy, saying, ‘Daddy, I’m so excited!'” wrote a dad who has taken both of his daughters to the ball. “It is impossible to convey what I have seen in their sweet spirits, their delicate, forming souls, as their daddy takes them out for their first, big dance. Their whole being absorbs my loving attention, resulting in a radiant sense of self-worth and identity. Think of it from their perspective: My daddy thinks I’m beautiful in my own unique way. My daddy is treating me with respect and honor. My daddy has taken time to be silly, and even made a fool of himself, learning how to dance. My daddy really loves me!” I don’t know, I’m pretty sure my dad got that same feeling from taking me out to the yard to play badminton.

Look, I’m not a parent yet, but I’ve been thinking about how to have a cool and convincing “Why I recommend that you wait to have sex” conversation with my daughter — and, I might add pointedly, my son — for years. And surely there’s some truth to the suggestion that the health of a girl’s relationship with her father (or father figure, if any) can have some effect on the health of her relationship with potential boyfriends. But … a dance? A public pledge? An, ahem, Georgia O’Keeffe-shaped canopy of white balloons? And where do the boys come in? Will these girls grow up thinking of them as predators from whom they need daddy’s protection, or as peers with whom they can set boundaries together? Better these parents should teach their princesses to throw balls instead of dress for them.

The post Daddy’s little virgin appeared first on Salon.com.

“I love bacon and chicharrónes, but I could never eat pork uterus,” I confess, wincing at our 60” Insignia television screen.

“Foot soup doesn’t sound great, either,” my mother replies, squeamishly shaking her head. “But you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

And I have. As a finicky eater who happens to be queer, Black and disabled, I wouldn’t touch durian, duck tongues or most of the basket items on the Food Network TV show, “Chopped.” Yet my family has been watching it faithfully for nearly two decades.

The reality competition features four chefs who transform baskets of mystery items into an appetizer, entrée or a dessert. Round by round, one contestant is eliminated, or “chopped,” until a single winner emerges and is awarded $10,000. The foods are extreme and run the gamut, from silkworm pupa to a whole goat head.

In our Valley Stream, Long Island home, my youthful 80-year-old, African American mother and I — her Gen X son and facial clone — comment on each episode like armchair judges.

“Greg’s dish really looks appetizing,” Mom says, holding a bag of sea-salt Popcorner chips, “but he forgot a basket item!”

“Uh-oh,” I reply, extracting a Ritz cracker from its sleeve. “You know what that means?”

“He’s getting chopped,” we sing in unison, laughing.

My 92-year-old West Indian father, a US Army veteran with Alzheimer’s-related dementia who once did half of the cooking, now observes quietly. Though, we do pepper him with questions to keep him engaged.

“What do you think of eating nutria, Dad?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Me, either! Rat meat is gross!

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His responses, while brief, are as meaningful as the on-screen action — more so, even, because every moment he can respond to us is a precious one. The few words he pieces together help anchor us the way they did before dementia transformed our lives.

My mother, younger brother — who watches when he’s not busy bartending — and I share caregiving duties for my father, who requires round-the-clock care. Mom handles the daytime with help from an aide, while Jeff and I split the nighttime, when Dad restlessly roams the house. “Chopped” helps fill the downtime between chores, meals and other primetime events.

I began following the series in 2009, because of a crush on Ted Allen from his days on “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” (He seems genuine, knowledgeable, and funny: an irresistible combination for me.) And though his passion is food — and mine is scrutinizing it skeptically — I forgive him, because the show has become a minor obsession.

When I introduced it to my parents in 2010, they thought I had lost my mind.

“You, the picky eater, watching anything to do with food?” my mother asked.

“Yeah. It’s the creativity. I really enjoy seeing what they make out of the funky basket items they get. It reminds me of my art-school days. And Ted is so much fun!”

“And who is this Ted person?” my then-well father inquired.

“Ted’s the host — and the cutest dork!”

The program has been our family ritual over the years, especially now, as we weather the havoc dementia continues to wreak on our lives. Its reality format allows for perfect projection and escapism: no coordinating specialists and home care agencies, certainly no paternal tantrums. For the hour the show airs, we leave our stresses behind and focus on enjoying each other’s company.

We also love catching the cooking tournaments, from “Alton’s Maniacal Baskets,” where quirky foods are chosen by superstar cook and presenter Alton Brown, to “Name Your Price,” where the chefs are given three products and must outbid each other for a fourth. My personal favorite is the “Military Salute” challenge, with the enlisted competitors hailing from the US Navy, Air Force, Marines, and Army. In the finale, the officers team up against the judges, illustrating the power of working together, like our family.

And they win.

Seventeen years of watching “Chopped” has left its mark on our nuclear unit: Mom and Jeff are still finding new ways to elevate hot dogs — Dad’s current culinary obsession — most recently mincing and serving them in a spaghetti bolognese. And I’m still persnickety but exposure to so many extreme foods has broadened my palate. I’ll always prefer Mom’s barbecued chicken, fried chicken and French fries, but I have branched out, trying an array of new, relatively tamer foods, ranging from albacore tuna to zucchini.

The program’s most enduring lesson for us has been one of persistence. Much like a high-stakes competition, caregiving forces us to confront the insurmountable daily. And we triumph over the chaos by staying present, flexible and focused on the tasks at hand, whatever they may be.

I still won’t eat pork uterus, though.

The post How “Chopped” keeps us together appeared first on Salon.com.