I have a bone to pick with whomever recommended The Great British Baking Show as soothing, low-stakes programming. So basically, the entire internet.
It probably didn’t help that I started my binge during a particularly vicious migraine, being—for once—in no mood for the brooding glances of Colin Sodding Firth, or my beloved Audrey Hepburn’s struggle to find herself and maybe a name for the cat. Turns out when I’ve got a migraine I need gentle, low-stakes, and familiar.
Otherwise I end up on the couch—in full noodle mode from a combination of Percocet and migraine meds—talking to the bakers. Like they can hear me.
CONTESTANT: So what I do is, I score the sponge before I roll it—
ME: Bad idea, hoss.
CONTESTANT: … and that keeps it from cracking.
ME: No it won’t. Stop. Stop that! You’re ruining it!
JUDGE: (cutting into swiss roll) It’s not a very nice roll, is it?
CONTESTANT: No, it—
JUDGE: It’s more a series of folds, see?
CONTESTANT: Yeah, I don’t know what happened there.
ME: Well, let’s see. You did the thing I said not to do, obvi. So you started with a pre-ruined cake and then you cocked it up because you’re Mr. Knows-it-all.
CONTESTANT: (ignores me, like an asshole)
CONTESTANT: I’m going to save a little time on this by softening the butter and just brushing it on—
ME: Nope. You can’t do that. It’ll melt in. Don’t do it!
CONTESTANT: Oh, it’s all doughy… why’d it to that?
ME: Because you melted it—why don’t you ever listen?!
And then my poor husband comes home and I have to explain. Which, as you can imagine, does nothing whatsoever to help the state of my poor murderous head because I start with the bit about a woman who looks for all the world like someone’s sweet old granny sabotaging her competitor’s ice cream. And I can’t possibly tell that story at anything less than top volume.