“We’re producing emotional stakes.”
“We’re prepping.”
“Same thing if the editor is good.”
I looked at Flint. He looked at me. We both wisely said nothing.
Ed gave a tired thumbs-up.
Caprice stood behind him, angled her clipboard, and nodded. “Sunny, give me prep.”
I smiled at the camera. “The score is tied one-one, which means today’s final round decides whether gourmet campfire food gets justice or Flint gets to spend the rest of his life saying things like ‘plain marshmallows are enough’ with entirely too much confidence.”
Flint crossed his arms. “Plain marshmallows won Round One.”
“Because the judges were vulnerable to nostalgia.”
“Because they had taste.”
“Because Caprice was emotionally compromised by browning.”
Caprice pointed her pen. “I was professionally moved by clean execution.”
“See?” Flint said.
I held up a labeled jar. “Today, I don’t know what the final prompt will be, so I’m prepping flavor families: sweet, savory, smoke, brightness, heat, and texture. Whatever Caprice throws at us, I’ll be ready.”
“Fire safely,” Flint added.
I looked at him. “I was getting there.”
“Were you?”
“I was.”
“Go on.”
“Thank you for your generous permission, Station Grandpa.”
Ed made a small noise behind the camera.
Flint’s eyes warmed. “You’re calling me Station Grandpa?”
“You checked my water buckets with your whole personality.”
“That’s because you put them in the right place.”
My smile almost slipped into something softer. I caught it before Caprice could pounce.
“Safety,” I said to the camera, lifting the jar higher, “is part of the prep. So is flavor. So is looking cute enough to make your competitor nervous while standing on tread that won’t betray you near live coals.”
Caprice whispered, “Good. Good, good, good.”
Flint looked down at my sneakers. “That tread might survive the day.”
“They’re Liza Minnelli’s cousins, the sensible branch of the family.”
His gaze lifted to my face. “They still have mustard laces.”
