Christmas Cookied Chef

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He should have practiced under studio lights before the actual competition. Then Connell would have accounted for the heat of the big television spots.
It over-softened butter. It slowed the cooling rate of the hundreds of pieces of gingerbread cookie he had to bake, causing several of them to overcook from residual heat alone. It even increased set times for the royal icing that he was counting on to glue his walls and roof together.
The heat also made him sweat on national television. He wasn’t going to be one of those guys who sweat into his food during a cooking show and grossed out the television audience.
Instead, he tied a dishtowel across his forehead like a white boy playing kitchen samurai. How was this look supposed to get him his slot on national TV? Unless he made it a thing. So, he would try making it a thing when the interviewer came around the next time and hope that it worked.
Paul Stark played Mr. Genial Host. Tall, blondly handsome, and a notorious playboy, he was also half-owner of the most successful cooking television network out there. Connell wanted a piece of that. Maybe he should dye his carrot-red hair to match Paul’s blond. Though he wasn’t the one Connell needed to impress, but rather his twin sister, Kate Stark. She was the real force behind the network’s success.
Here he came, working down the line. Geoffrey, Oliver, himself, and then the delectable Juliana—the showgirl piece of the grand finale. He kept reminding himself that she hadn’t qualified for looking hot. She was an artist in the kitchen, fast and meticulous. The only real threat to his win. But she offered incredible bonus visual material.
A cute little Asian chick trotted along behind Stark with a closeup camera. Where could he get one, too? A tiny, tight-bodied servant of his own? Easy money said Paul got himself a piece of that.
“I like the look,” Paul picked up another kitchen towel, hot pink instead of plain white like Connell’s, and tried wrapping it around his own forehead before turning to the camera to model it. “Think it’s me?”
The camera girl rolled her eyes at him, even as she filmed his antics. Guess Paul wasn’t getting a piece of that.
“So not!” Connell didn’t want anyone stealing the look if it worked for him, but he remembered this guy was the host in time to make it funny.
Paul made a pretend pout. “Looks good on you though. Why is that?”
“We already had an Italian contender, Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid.” One of Dad’s favorite movies watched repeatedly over his ever-increasing beer belly.
Coulda been me.
Sure, Dad, if you ever got off your ass to do more than burp and fart. His dad could have also been the CEO of GM and the President of the United States, according to him. Instead he was a marginally employed longshoreman, with a secretarial wife, a son, and a daughter who all hated his guts.
“Maybe it’s time for a red-headed Irish Kitchen-Towel Samurai,” Connell suggested. Kitchen-Towel Ninja? Nah, Samurai sounded better. Not bad for a first shot at an on-screen trademark.

Initial Publication: May 14, 2019
Edit / Re-release: June 1, 2025
Print pages: 68