The screen fills with the welcoming faces of two sixty-something women. One is Black, one is white, and both wear gingham dresses.
“Well, hello there, y’all. I’m Dot. And I don’t believe in the gospel of butter, olive oil, or too much fat. I worship at the altar of healthy-ish meals,” the white woman says in a big Texas accent.
The Black woman goes next, her voice pure Georgia charm. “And I’m Bette, and you can bet your bottom dollar we’ll teach you every dang thing we know about how to substitute applesauce in chocolate chip cookies without a single soul but your priest knowing.”
Holy shit.
They are sassy and on the same wavelength when it comes to healthy eating. They’re like your favorite feisty grandmas.
“They’re good,” I say after a few videos and a few more of the life-sustaining peppers.
“They also love me,” Jason says, setting down his fork, then pointing to their recent episode.
I groan, but it’s a proud groan when I click on that one.
And what do you know? Dot and Bette are both sporting my brother’s Hawks jersey—signed by the dude who threw footballs to me in the backyard. I was his favorite target growing up, and that still makes me proud.
“So, we are super excited because we met Jason McKay last week, and yes, hold your horses, friends, he signed my jersey,” Dot says and turns around to show off a number fourteen.
“And to think I signed a T-shirt in a burger shop today,” I mutter. But these ladies? A few short months on the site, and they’ve already shot past us in viewership. They’re YouTube darlings, getting love from the site and from sponsors. They’d be ideal partners.
Jason nudges me with his elbow. “Tell them you’re my bro. I bet they’d love to partner with you,” he says, then finishes his dinner.
This kid, he’s smart. I send Dot and Bette an email asking if they want to collaborate.
In the morning, there’s a reply for me, and I can’t decide if I’m thrilled or terrified to open it.
3
Mister Hustle
Nolan
* * *
Emerson gives good “excited” face.
I’ve seen many versions of it since I met her twelve years ago at college.
There was the time in junior year when she scored nosebleed tickets to Les Mis on Broadway and belted out her own lyrics to “One Day More” in our dorm hall:
ToMORrow I’LL be in Times Squaaaaare . . .
And WITH this SHOW a fangirl has starteeeeeehhhd.
Then, a couple of years ago, when the first episode of How to Eat a Banana reached a thousand views in two hours, she moonwalked on Fillmore Street. Though, full disclosure, I dared her to, since the day before, she’d bragged about learning how to moonwalk from a series of Michael Jackson dance-move tutorials.
Earlier this year, when she was having a rough day, I surprised her by whipping up her favorite sandwich in the whole world—avocado, Beecher’s Cheese, tomatoes, and my very own signature sauce on an everything baguette from the Sunshine Bakery. With a smile of gratitude, she crunched into it, moaned around it, and then set it down to throw her arms around me. “This sandwich makes me so happy,” she’d said.
Maybe I glowed a little from the compliment.
But those moments pale next to the way her face splits into a city-wide smile as she grabs my phone and reads the email, wonder in her irises.
We’re standing in the financial district outside the TV station where she’s just finished doing makeup for the morning show anchor. Wind whips by, a typical San Francisco chill in the spring air.
Once she finishes reading, she says, “Allow me,” then adopts a Texas down-home accent and reads it again, this time aloud.
* * *
Dear Nolan,
What an absolute delight to hear from you. Wouldn’t you know, but we’re big fans of your show. We just started watching it last night, and we did that binge-y thing! Woohoo! And we sure like what we see. You and your little lady are so stinking cute.
We would love to partner with you. What a treat to meet someone who doesn’t cook Paula Deen style! You’ve got to keep that ticker going for the more fun activities in life! As I say, food is fuel for love.
If you know what I mean.
Winky face!
So, here’s the story. Our business manager, Evelyn, is here with us in Vegas. And we’re throwing a little ol’ party tomorrow since we just crossed some threshold or another on the YouTube. What a fun site! But . . . Confession time: We don’t even know how to get on the YouTube.
Evelyn does all the uploads and the videos and the thingies behind the scenes. We just smile for the camera and stir up the blessings in the kitchen.
In any case, we like to do everything face-to-face. We don’t suppose you’d want to come to our party tomorrow night? I think you’re in California, so maybe just hop in a convertible and road trip on across the state border! Come join us, and we could even shoot a quick video too, for both our channels, assuming all goes well!