“Is that safe?” Evander arches an eyebrow. “I mean, look at what already happened. I’m worried about your safety, bro.”
“You’re too kind, Vander. I’ll be there to supervise this time.” I pause. “But, at least we know the fire department responds quickly.”
My brothers laugh.
“And you are going to help this woman?” Papa asks.
“Yes, I’m going to start her off with the basics, and once she’s comfortable, move on to helping her find her own style. I’ll just be taping it. I thought it would be nice to do a sort of reforming worst bakers’ series.”
“That sounds like fun! Abuelita would approve, too. You’re passing down knowledge, and hopefully with it, your love of baking.” Mom places the cheese, sour cream, and guacamole on the table and takes her place beside Papa.
“People actually want to see this?” Papa asks, genuinely confused.
“Oh yeah. There are a ton of popular shows that do this,” Winston says.
“Hmm.” Papa’s noncommittal sound is a win in my book.
I’m painfully aware that I’m throwing Matilda Lawson under the bus. She was hesitant to agree to the taping and promotions clause in my contract. When I insisted, she yielded. I failed to mention that soon her face will be plastered everywhere I can think of or that my hopes of going viral hinge on her unfortunate disaster in the kitchen. I squash the guilt trying to form. There’s no reason we can’t both get what we need from this situation. She chose to sign the contract. I was upfront. Nothing I have in mind will be outside of the parameters I had written down.
“If you can pull this off. It’ll be excellent publicity,” Evander says.
“I’m counting on that,” I admit toying with my silverware as I justify my actions to myself.
Winston nods. “I mean, they call him the Cookie King because of all the recipes he creates during the holidays. His honor is at stake.”
“No pressure, guys,” I say dryly.
“How can we help?” Winston leans forward, eager to help.
I smile. “When it airs, tell everyone, and help me spread the news on social media.”
“You should do a lead-up,” Winston says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Promote it. You know this is for the bake sale, right? Make it a redemption story with a deadline. Everyone loves that. And I mean, she’s famous for her failure, so why wouldn’t she want a chance to set the record straight?” Evander shrugs.
“That’s genius.” I point at him as my mind spins. She can get her own special run of the segment. I need to come up with a clever tag.
“We do know a thing or two about advertising,” Evander says sarcastically.
I roll my eyes.
“As much as I love to see my boys working together, it’s time for grace.” Mom turns to Papa. “Ernesto?”
“Father, we thank you for the food we’re about to see in the nourishing body of Jesus Christ our Lord.”
“Amen,” we chorus. The food begins to circulate the table—conversation shifts to the rest of the family and their week.
“ONE WOMAN.” A PICTURE of Matilda Lawson pops up on the screen. Her tempting pink lips are parted in laughter, and her eyes seem to sparkle in the light. Anyone that beautiful needs a flaw. Maybe baking is hers. “With one goal. To bake the best-tasting cookie anyone has ever eaten.” A montage of delicious looking cookies from my show follows. The background music swells, increasing in crescendo. “After a tumultuous attempt on New Year’s Eve, the odds are stacked against her.” A clip of the fire department leaving her home plays along with her tongue in cheek. “Did you know cookies could catch on fire?” “But the Cookie King is here to help her find redemption.” A picture of me holding up a spatula flashes. “The Cookie Woman and the Cookie King have a mere three weeks to turn her into baking royalty. Join us weekly for our first series of Baking Redemptions.”
“The response to this has been insane,” Winston says.
“Yeah.” My phone vibrates again, and I ignore it. Matilda Lawson hadn’t appreciated the publicity. “Apparently, her social media has exploded, and her friends and family have been calling her non-stop. She’s not too happy about it.”
“She signed a contract agreeing to publicity, right?” Winston asks.
“Of course,” I scoff. “This isn’t amateur hour.”