Ed McMahon's Invention of Air
Surely you’re aware of Ed McMahon, aren’t you? Americans of a certain age will be. I was vaguely aware of him in the way that any child of the 90’s was vaguely aware of people like Richard Nixon or, even, Richard Marx. Ed McMahon sat on the couch of the living room of America for 30 years, with a catchphrase, Heeere’s Johnny! That achieved immortality with a younger, but now older, generation via Homer Simpson’s insane ravings in a Treehouse of Horror episode in 1994.
Well, what happened to old Ed after the Tonight Show closed its final curtain? A lot of things, but one thing stands out as a cultural moment that seems to have slipped into oblivion, one that is asking to be brought forward again and examined, like a broken sand dollar, before we cast it out into the sea again. The Miracle Fryer. Do you remember that infomercial? I certainly don’t. As an avid 1990’s infomercial watcher, I remember “set it and forget it!” and food dehydrators and the slanted grill that “cuts the fat” and a British man in a red bow tie yelling about fresh salsa. But the Miracle Fryer existed, too, and it’s an astonishing look into peak America, before it crumbled, quickly, then slowly, then quickly again until we arrived at present day.
The Miracle Fryer, to be clear, is a mesh screen sitting on top of a tray. That’s the entire product. Supposedly, one can place a wide variety of different brown foods—chicken nuggets, french fries, onion rings, fish sticks, and more! onto the mesh-covered tray, insert it into your oven, and use your oven’s own thermal waves to cook your food while also cutting the fat, a particularly obsessive fixation of the late 1990s that has morphed repeatedly and now sits firmly into the protein supplementation of everything.
Now, little research was done for this essay beyond watching the infomercial and reading Ed McMahon’s Wikipedia page. But I think that’s enough. I don’t know what the Miracle Fryer is made out of, I don’t know how many units it sold, or if it’s still available outside of a single second hand store somewhere near Topeka. I don’t even know if it really works in the way that Nancy Nelson’s loud MMMMs and grinning countenance seem to imply, but I have my doubts.
There’s something startling about Ed McMahon’s appearance three minutes into the infomercial. We’ve been educated on the evils of deep frying and the unquestionable unwantedness of fat in our foods. We’ve already seen Nancy taking a crunchy bite of french fries that allegedly have had their calories cut by 83%. Then, she pivots. There’s a gentleman she needs to tell us about. A man who, as she describes, is “here to unveil a discovery of his.” A discovery. Ed McMahon was in his garage in the San Fernando Valley, as I imagine it, surrounded by tools and parts and prototypes, and late on a Saturday night, _discovered it. _And now, 18 months later, he strolls in—no, wanders in—after Nancy Nelson’s introduction. He’s dressed to the nines, pocket square and all, and he brings Nancy into a hug. He’s glad to be here. He’s here to talk about his discovery, and the technology. They’re big claims. Yet the man in front of us is Ed McMahon, who we mostly know for his hosting chops, his catchphrase, and his background laugh on the Tonight Show. We did not know about his engineering proficiency, and his tenacious inventive spirit. Now we do.
A YouTube commenter jokes that Ed “knocked a few back” before the infomercial. I will not speculate. But I also won’t judge. He’s probably at a sound stage in Burbank, it’s the middle of the day, he’s in his golden years—who wouldn’t knock a few back? I don’t hold it against him.
What unfolds after the introduction is something to behold. We watch Ed McMahon, in his suit, and in his genteelness, carefully load chicken strips and onion rings (Ed’s favorite), onto the mesh screen. He is fixed in place for the entire infomercial, where I imagine two yellow footprints have been painted on the floor, while Nancy runs to and fro, putting his creations into the oven, retrieving things that are ready to taste, and he’s just…there. He’s a professional, of course—you can’t not be after decades in showbiz. He has the enthusiasm in his voice about fish sticks. He even smiles. But there’s something else there, behind his eyes. There is an, “I’m completing my contractual obligations. I wonder if my driver is still out back, if he’s kept the car idling. I wonder if the Irish bar down the road has air conditioning,” all churning behind those big glasses.
At one point, they bring out and introduce a Culinary Institute of America-trained chef. He’s framed as the actual inventor, or perhaps the executor to Ed’s idea. The Saturday night garage vision evaporates. We recalibrate. Okay, it was this guy. Ed was the idea guy. Fine. But Nancy and Ed continue presenting, and the chef gets interrupted, and can’t seem to get a word in. He does manage a few key sentences about grease dripping or excess calories, or the crunch of the foods that have been cooked on the Miracle Fryer (a particular preoccupation of this infomercial), but otherwise he’s largely ignored. If he’s the inventor, shouldn’t he be the main presenter? What’s Ed doing here? It’s not that Ed was the one to actually sign the endorsement and licensing deal, was it? I will wonder this until the end.
When it ends, I’m left feeling uneasy. I have thoughts about how we treat our aging celebrities, what we do with our “beloved” entertainers, those who we welcomed into our living rooms every night, now that we’re done with them. I’m also happy that Ed got some money, though I imagine he was disappointed this product wasn’t a runaway success like the Foreman Grill. In fact, in some ways, this is a product ahead of its time. Air fryers are legitimately one of the most popular counter-top appliances in America now. Damnit, Ed, you were so close. In sum, I feel a bit sad.
The YouTube video ends and I’m treated to a post-roll ad for car insurance, and then a recommended music video for an artist whose video I accidentally clicked on two weeks ago. I’m on my phone now, searching “air fryer” on Amazon. Maybe I should see what all the hype is about. I’d like to cut the fat too, and tell my family to be quiet so they can all hear that satisfying crunch of my now-healthy french fry.
And what I see is stunning. Dozens of brands. Perhaps hundreds, all trying to sell their air fryers to me. And many of these brands, I’ve never heard of. Rivee. Ordai. Lyncia. Whatever. They don’t care about me. They’re all made in the same factory, and the brand name is changed, and really, the brand name doesn’t matter. No one’s actually trying to sell me anything. I’m just scrolling. Here’s a product. Here’s another. Buy it, or don’t. Who cares.
There’s no Nancy Nelson. There’s no Ed McMahon. There’s no gentleman, no pocket square, no trembling hand carefully maneuvering a chicken nugget. These people weren’t perfect, but they at least showed up to the studio that day. They learned their lines. Nancy performed her enthusiasm. I was told a price, and then the price was slashed in half with a red X and now I’m getting a deal. Now, I see the same list prices crossed out, and they’re always crossed out, and they always will be crossed out, and the price is calculated by the day by an algorithm, I’m sure. And I find myself missing the flawed, loose with the truth, anecdotal, reminiscent-about-boyhood-onion-rings charm of it all. And I wish Ed would try to sell me one more thing. I would buy it.