If you don’t mind—”
“I don’t.”
“Okay then.” She follows me into the back. I introduce her to Tee and Gretchen.
Patrice tucks her frizzled gray hair behind her ears. I offer her a stool and she struggles to perch her short, round body on it. “And your manager? Xavier Potter? I have been corresponding with him.”
“He’s gone for the day.” Manager? I don’t correct her.
“I see.” She lifts her oversized quilted bag onto the counter, removes a yellow legal pad, and gives me a binder with the Bake-Off logo custom-printed on the front. “Page three, please. Let’s review the schedule, which I sent you. This afternoon you’ll meet with hair and makeup. And wardrobe. Tomorrow will be a day of filming interviews and voice-over segments and speaking with customers. The color.” She crosses off several words from her pad. “You do have those photos together?”
“Uh, yeah.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she doesn’t seem like the kind of person I should admit it to, so I make a mental note to call Xavier as soon as possible.
“Fine.” Another check mark. “On Friday you’ll be closed, of course. The restaurant will be prepared for the show. Things will need to be rearranged, lighting brought in, some props. We may need to record more fill footage. And then Saturday, it’s hair and makeup by six a.m., contest begins at nine, and judging at five p.m. This is all familiar to you.” She stares at me, her green eyes unblinking, and I realize she meant that final statement as a question.
I nod. “Oh yes. Absolutely.”
Patrice caps her pen and sets it on the pad, folds her hands over it. “Ms. McNamara. I have been doing this a long time. There are two types of people who come on these shows—those who seek them out, who believe their half hour of fame will bring happiness and unicornsand make all their dreams come true, and those who find themselves in the middle of it all without ever intending to be there. We both know where you fall.”
“Ms. Olsen—”
“Patrice. Please. To the first group, I tell them, ‘Enjoy it. But realize it’s not going to change your life.’ They never believe me.”
“And the second?”
“I tell them, ‘Enjoy it. And realize it’s not going to change your life.’ They rarely believe me either.”
I look at her. Her face is soft with unexpected kindness. “I understand.”
She opens her pen and flips to the next page of paper.
Even in times of want, men seek out bread, as if any substance milled and kneaded and shaped and baked provides the sustenance of a wheaten loaf. Perhaps they know this isn’t truth, but convince themselves of it because bread brings them comfort. Each slice has the potential to become the body of the risen Christ, the church tells them—with the proper priestly blessing, of course—so they fashion their gleanings to something almost bread, hoping for a miracle of their own.
Animals are slaughtered first, not only for food, but for their feed. The grains eaten by cows and chickens can be used to nourish a family in the form of pottage, a mash of boiled cereals and water, unseasoned probably, because all the sugar, honey, and maple is finished—if they could ever afford it at all. And then the flour disappears, the housewife telling her family this is the last loaf, and she cuts it thin so it will last several days, toasting the stale pieces over the fire to revive them.
And then it’s gone too.
What is to be done now? The French make acorn bread, shelling and grinding the bitter little hatted pods into meal, sometimes mixing it with other meals or flours, if there are any to be had. Those eating itdo so in disgrace, since acorns have long been used as food for swine. The Germans harvest wild oats and shore grasses with heads mimicking those of wheat, and even reeds and rushes. Any vegetable seed one could find is dried and crushed. In Sweden, pine bark and needles sometimes comprised upward of
“I don’t.”
“Okay then.” She follows me into the back. I introduce her to Tee and Gretchen.
Patrice tucks her frizzled gray hair behind her ears. I offer her a stool and she struggles to perch her short, round body on it. “And your manager? Xavier Potter? I have been corresponding with him.”
“He’s gone for the day.” Manager? I don’t correct her.
“I see.” She lifts her oversized quilted bag onto the counter, removes a yellow legal pad, and gives me a binder with the Bake-Off logo custom-printed on the front. “Page three, please. Let’s review the schedule, which I sent you. This afternoon you’ll meet with hair and makeup. And wardrobe. Tomorrow will be a day of filming interviews and voice-over segments and speaking with customers. The color.” She crosses off several words from her pad. “You do have those photos together?”
“Uh, yeah.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she doesn’t seem like the kind of person I should admit it to, so I make a mental note to call Xavier as soon as possible.
“Fine.” Another check mark. “On Friday you’ll be closed, of course. The restaurant will be prepared for the show. Things will need to be rearranged, lighting brought in, some props. We may need to record more fill footage. And then Saturday, it’s hair and makeup by six a.m., contest begins at nine, and judging at five p.m. This is all familiar to you.” She stares at me, her green eyes unblinking, and I realize she meant that final statement as a question.
I nod. “Oh yes. Absolutely.”
Patrice caps her pen and sets it on the pad, folds her hands over it. “Ms. McNamara. I have been doing this a long time. There are two types of people who come on these shows—those who seek them out, who believe their half hour of fame will bring happiness and unicornsand make all their dreams come true, and those who find themselves in the middle of it all without ever intending to be there. We both know where you fall.”
“Ms. Olsen—”
“Patrice. Please. To the first group, I tell them, ‘Enjoy it. But realize it’s not going to change your life.’ They never believe me.”
“And the second?”
“I tell them, ‘Enjoy it. And realize it’s not going to change your life.’ They rarely believe me either.”
I look at her. Her face is soft with unexpected kindness. “I understand.”
She opens her pen and flips to the next page of paper.
Even in times of want, men seek out bread, as if any substance milled and kneaded and shaped and baked provides the sustenance of a wheaten loaf. Perhaps they know this isn’t truth, but convince themselves of it because bread brings them comfort. Each slice has the potential to become the body of the risen Christ, the church tells them—with the proper priestly blessing, of course—so they fashion their gleanings to something almost bread, hoping for a miracle of their own.
Animals are slaughtered first, not only for food, but for their feed. The grains eaten by cows and chickens can be used to nourish a family in the form of pottage, a mash of boiled cereals and water, unseasoned probably, because all the sugar, honey, and maple is finished—if they could ever afford it at all. And then the flour disappears, the housewife telling her family this is the last loaf, and she cuts it thin so it will last several days, toasting the stale pieces over the fire to revive them.
And then it’s gone too.
What is to be done now? The French make acorn bread, shelling and grinding the bitter little hatted pods into meal, sometimes mixing it with other meals or flours, if there are any to be had. Those eating itdo so in disgrace, since acorns have long been used as food for swine. The Germans harvest wild oats and shore grasses with heads mimicking those of wheat, and even reeds and rushes. Any vegetable seed one could find is dried and crushed. In Sweden, pine bark and needles sometimes comprised upward of
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