I watch a fantastic series that is immensely popular called The Great British Baking Show. Since my husband has been home this week, he’s watched it with me. He doesn’t usually watch my shows. This is highly unusual. Of course, he had questions. I had answers, not all of which I said aloud.
What are these people’s qualifications? He’s talking about the judges. The judges are professional bakers with cookbooks and tv shows.
That’s not a pie, is it? Yes, it is.
Those are croissants. No, they are not.
Why don’t they make Cassata? That’s Italian. It’s Italian Week. I don’t actually make up the challenges.
Are we watching another one? Yes, that’s how it goes, it’s called binge-watching.
5 seconds! Nobody saw it! Pick it up. No, they can’t pick up dropped food to serve to the judges.
He’s like Baker Smurf. What is his name? Harold? No.
She’s like Smurfette. I give up.
Strawberry choux buns? I like her buns. Stop.
Why don’t you bake like this? Because I’m not going to get a cookbook deal out of making y’all a tart.
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