They bake cakes, pies, biscuits, patisserie, and concoctions of flour and eggs I have never encountered and cannot pronounce. They do all this in a white tent on a rented, posh UK estate in a place of bees, often rain, and a green lawn that surrounds them like something out of our dreams of paradise. A pair of judges, Paul Hollywood, a name I would not ask you to believe in a story and either Prue or Mary offer their pronouncements on texture and colors and all important flavor. They say, “underbaked” or “bland’ or “raw” or “bit of a mess” or “a rough old biscuit that one” and watch the bakers, 10 to begin the competition, stagger a mite but recover quickly and just “crack on” doing their best to make wonderful bakes. They say, “Oh that is poetry” or “perfect, delicate pastry” or “I could eat that all day” or best of all “that is beautifully baked” with the ‘beyouuouo” of the first syllable sounding like the best aria one has ever heard. Now watch those bakers smile as if gold coins had been pulled from their ears and set into their open palms.
They talk to us as they “run, run, run, run, run” to make their dishes before time runs out. They say “I’m chuffed” , or “I was feeling pretty rubbish this morning” or “This is proper spicy” or a “proper disaster”. I suddenly love the word “proper”. I love their explanations, their pleadings directed toward batter, their worry about heat and despair at melting chocolate, their groans, laughter, delight in their competence, delight in putting something together they had never heard of before facing the challenge.
Reality TV is scripted, I know. It is heavily edited to produce drama, I know. I know much (almost all) involve contestants who you think would eat each others’ children to come out on top. Here however, judges, contestants, and the two comedians, who give a slapstick air to the whole contraption, seem to genuinely like each other. The bakers help each other. Really. No sniping. No huddled conspiring. No sabotage. These men and women from all over the UK, of all colors, all religions, do more than get along. Over the course of 8 weeks, they create a little community that ends in a big party for everyone’s family and friends at which one is chosen as the best baker in the UK and receives a dish plate for his or her reward. A_ dish_ plate.
I watch and think, grumbly think, “No this is frivolous, I’m being manipulated, this is not real”, but then give all that dark nonsense up and jump into the felt goodness of this one hour where I swear to you, you will emerge convinced that the human race is completely worth saving, especially if they all come bearing a Bakewell Slice whose one perfect raspberry on top helps you believe in innocence again.
