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February 12th, This Year
If nothing else, they aptly named this show.
The plastic banner, draped across the tent's ceiling, glistens in the harsh stage lights. MENTAL BAKEDOWN, it reads — and then, in smaller print: WHERE BAKERS MEET THEIR MAKER.
Even now, months after I've accepted the role as reality show contestant, the name of the show makes me chuckle. After the year from hell, MENTAL BAKEDOWN is a little too fitting.
I don't realize I'm grinning up at the banner until a layer of cakey makeup cracks on my cheeks. Bleh. I glimpse at the makeup crew over my shoulder, wondering if it's worth it to flag them over for a quick fix. Their backs are all turned, their brushes flying in a cloud of powder as they fuss over another contestant.
Whatever. I'll let them figure it out if they need to.
After all, this year is supposed to be about letting go. About allowing what's fated to come my way. About accepting, once and for all, that I can't force what's not meant to be.
I draw a deep breath through my nose, desperate to ground myself in an environment where everything's harsh and artificial. My tarot cards this morning couldn't have been that wrong. They've never let me down before, and today I drew the upright Wheel of Fortune. It's a clear sign this year is going to bring change and the acceptance of inevitable fate. Good things are coming my way, I tell myself, drawing deep breaths.
Then again, good things aren't necessarily comfortable things — and allowing discomfort is a work in progress. I'm a professionally trained baker with the debt of a failed business hanging over my head like a constant storm cloud. Even if I could afford makeup, it's a sheer impracticality in my line of work. What am I supposed to do, worry about my mascara running in the middle of cooking off a raspberry reduction?
I shift the balls of my feet in my tie-dyed Chuck Taylors, already feeling constricted in my peasant blouse and stuffy blue apron. Charles, the producer of Mental Bakedown, has been crystal clear that my role this season is "Weirdo Hippie Vibes Girl." I'm choosing to be more delighted than irked that he nailed my personality from my casting tape alone.
Deep breaths, Willa. Deep breaths. Think about the positive.
Yeah… I need to get my shit together before the rest of the contestants arrive. I stand up straighter and hold my head up high. I'm a contestant on a nationally televised baking show. No matter what Mom says, that's a big deal!
Another makeup-cracking grin splits my face as I look around the soundstage. Each of the ten contestants gets a professional baking workstation with a little island, complete with a full stove and oven, a butcher block countertop painted in a bright pastel, and a rainbow of ingredients. Against the back wall of the tent, a row of giant fridges stand guard like soldiers on watch.
Ugh... a shared fridge.
It's been almost exactly two years since I experienced a nasty incident with a shared fridge, but the sight of it still churns my stomach. It was our pastry final in culinary school, and someone — who later ruined my life in a completely different way — left it open for too long, ruining my cake. Because this someone happened to be the chef nepo baby from hell, my totally justified explanation didn't matter at all. He tried to apologize, but it didn’t matter. He lost; I won. And today, two years later, I have to deal with his gloating grin stretched on every bus and billboard: The new face of the DC restaurant scene!
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
I draw deep breaths, gritting my teeth.
Good vibes only, Willa!
I direct my attention to more pleasant things around the room. I've endured a lot of bullshit in my professional career... a lot. And yes, the aforementioned asshole, now a revered pastry chef, is responsible for most of that bullshit. But guess what? None of that matters. Not now. I'm in a baking paradise, and I'm not gonna let my past ruin it.
I walk to the closest baking station and take it in with a gentle smile. They painted this station a Robin's egg blue, and all the equipment is color coordinated. The shiny mixer stands ready for action, with rows of neatly organized bowls and spoons waiting patiently for their turn. I can almost smell the promise of freshly baked goods in the air. Good things are coming, Willa... because after this year, they have to.
Someone calls my name, interrupting a potential rumination.
Really, I should thank them (or the universe) for saving me from that downward spiral. Right now, though, all I can think about is how the voice sounds super chipper and goes about a million miles a minute. "Oh, HEY! You must be Willa! I'm Danielle!"
Wait... Danielle?
As in... Danielle Nakahama?
My eyes widen, my heart hammering in my throat. I swear my body moves of its own accord as I turn on my heel. Sure enough, that's Danielle Nakahama. In the flesh. Right in front of me.Her straight black hair shines beneath the overhead lights, her signature blue Polo perfectly popped around her neck. Her smile is big enough to wrap the world in goodness twice, but she's shorter than I thought she'd be. Isn't that what they say about famous people? They're always shorter than you think?
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but if Danielle notices I'm too star-struck to talk, she doesn't mention it. Instead, she extends her hand for a pleasant handshake. "You specialize in French dishes, right?" she asks, as casually as you please. "I've seen your work on the show's website! Seriously impressive stuff!"
With that, my words return. But because I'm me, they don't come back correctly. "I... holy shit... I... WOW! T-thank you!" I shake her hand far too aggressively, for far too long. "This... you don't understand," I finally manage, dropping her hand. "This is... wow. YOU! You're SUCH a big deal!"
"Eh." She disregards this. "I have a great social media team. Believe me, things are messy behind the scenes."
I chuckle, delirious. I have a hard time believing that. Danielle Nakahama is a world-famous, hyper-realistic baker. Remember those videos with a chef's knife cutting into a toilet, only to have the toilet crumble into a pile of cake? She started that trend. She's the cake equivalent of Taylor Swift, and as someone currently wearing a Folklore friendship bracelet, I don't say that lightly.
