The oddities and stupidly small-time stakes of the TV cooking contest speak to my lockdown-addled brain like little else
A chocolate fondant sits on a plate, wobbling as though it is nervous. “You and me both,” I think, sympathising with a pudding. I am at home, on the sofa, my dinner balanced precariously on my lap, as it has been every night since March. The fondant on the television in front of me continues to tremble. I’m gravely concerned about its structural integrity.
Then I inhale sharply. A spoon in a disembodied hand strikes the dessert to reveal its innards. I lean closer to the TV in order to understand the fondant’s fate. Will it be death? Stodginess from careless overcooking? A liquidy mess after a panicked, premature removal from the oven? Or – could it be? – smooth, rapturous, indulgent glory?
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