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The video opens with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen (although I may be biased after seeing her food) chopping strawberries and explaining how she’s about to show us how to make a strawberry shortcake. She’s wearing a hoodie, which is odd for a kitchen, and I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something off about her left hand.
I can see why they were waffling. Her knife-handling tactics are making me extremely nervous. It’s way too close to her fingers. She’s chopping where she should be slicing and her movements are erratic. I can physically feel the tension forming in my lower back.
The scream I let out when she chops off her fingers is in an octave only dogs can hear.
Why the hell did he show me this?
I brace for the blood and the screams, but none come.
Instead, this absolute madwoman cackles and pulls back her sleeve to reveal her real hand.
My horror morphs into awe.
“What I’m actually going to demonstrate today is how to sculpt a realistic human hand from fondant. By the time I’m done, you’ll have the skills to shock and delight the guests at your next Halloween party.” She smiles wickedly. “Or any party that might need spicing up like your boss’s retirement party or a spoiled nephew’s birthday. I won’t judge.”
I’m captivated by how skillfully she mixes the flesh tones for the hand. She even takes the time to go over the different formulas needed for skin types other than her “blinding snowy hue” (her words). The way she stays engaged with the camera the entire time is incredible. I can barely cook while talking to my sous chef, and here she is, making it look easy.
If they don’t add her to this program, I’m finding her and hiring her myself.
Since she can’t exactly mail in pastries, Avery included a testimonial section including a live tasting of her food.
“This is a new recipe for me,” she says, “so none of the people you see here have tried this before. Any reactions you see are genuine.”
I watch the faces closely, looking for any twitches or tics that might belie their verbal reactions, but the way they seem to melt or float off their chairs after their first bite can’t be faked. It’s a wonderful vicarious experience, and I’m more determined than ever to taste the real thing.
One interview in particular has me in a fit of laughter.
“Okay, Mia, tell the review board what you think.”
“It’s [bleep] amazing,” she gushes.
“Mia!”
“[Bleep] sorry.”
“You promised I wasn’t going to have to bleep you out in editing,” Avery scolds.
“Hello, Committee People, please don’t hold this against Avery. She is a consummate professional and the best [bleep] cook I’ve had the pleasure to work with… oh, crap. Sorry, Avery. I’m not doing it on purpose. I promise. This is just that good.”
I sober up when I see Reginald frowning.
The personal statement piece is last.
I thought she was attractive before in her casual wear, but seeing her dressed in her best… well, there’s no other word to use except stunning. Her light hair hangs around her face in loose waves, shimmering from the sun peeking through the window.
She has an eye for the small details because the blue of her blazer matches her eyes and her lips are tinted the same shade of pink as the blouse underneath.
I'm so focused on the perfect shape of her mouth and the delicate movement of her hands as she talks that I’m barely processing what she’s saying.
Just like that, I'm whisked away into a fantasy.
I’d take her on a tour of my industrial kitchen and see that gorgeous smile bloom across her face when I tell her to raid the pantry and experiment with desserts.
Watching her work would be a bigger aphrodisiac than a barrel of oysters. I only saw the highlight reel of her pastry creation, but I want to see it all. I want to see her splotched with flour, food dye on her hands, and that determined glint in her eye.
I’m not sure I’d even be able to wait for her to finish whatever she’s making before I dropped her on top of a counter and had my way with her. I don't know what I want to taste more, her or her cooking.
What the hell is wrong with you? You'll likely be her mentor if she's accepted and you’re acting like a creep. You’re no better than the men who went around groping the waitresses at Cowboy’s Steakhouse.
