Tough Cookie

You could offer a rare, old-vine zinfandel with the appetizers, and a sauvignon blanc with your main course, I sang out gaily. At this, Arthur, bless his heart, finally cracked a smile. Then he guzzled more Pepto. The camera panned to the phones, where three of the volunteers were chatting with donors. Off-camera for a moment, I scanned the crowd and bit back my second gasp of the morning.

Doug Portman, buyer of Tom’s historic skis, had arrived. Looking older, pudgier, and balder than the last time I’d seen him, he waggled his fingers at me, despite the fact that I’d forgotten his free-food ticket. Just then all the phones rang. I made Rorry Bullock’s face out in the crowd. Her eyes were slits, her face tormented. Why? The fund-raiser was going well. Why was she so upset? Arthur wrote on his clipboard: 10 seconds to BREAK! I quickly moved the crab-cake pan to the sink and introduced a clip from one of Nate’s programs.

Once the five-minute spot was underway, I sat, drank more water, and reviewed my script. A live show. While the audience shifted in their seats, my palms sweat and my heart jogged in my chest. Still, I was beginning to think I might survive this ordeal. I had just finished readying the dessert ingredients when Arthur waved his clipboard. 30 SECONDS!

I could hear the crack in my voice when I announced, “The aphrodisiacal qualities of ginger, cinnamon, and nutmeg in these gingersnaps will spice up your love life, no question about it! Especially if you pair them with a luxurious dessert wine.” I raised my eyebrows naughtily at the camera and started up my hand-held mixer. Plasterlike blocks of butter stalled the mixer’s motor. Hnnh, hnnh, the engine growled. I pressed the button again, again, and yet again. The beaters refused to move. I glanced up: The live-show disaster I’d feared had struck. The cluster of folks closest to me—Eileen and Jack, the two cameramen, and Arthur Wakefield—were gaping at me. I felt like the pilot of the Hindenburg.

My ears buzzed and I heard Rorry say, You don’t know a thing, Goldy. The seconds ticked off; the camera eyes glared. I pressed the mixer button hard. Hnnh! Hnnh! The bank of phones fell silent.

I grinned at the red light on top of Camera One, quickly unplugged and replugged the mixer, then pressed the Restart button. The beaters strained and moaned, as if they were blending cement. Hadn’t Jack or Eileen softened the butter? Did “room temperature” at eleven thousand feet mean forty degrees? The butter was hard as a brick.

Arthur’s gloomy visage loomed behind the camera. He looked as if his best friend had just gone down in the Hindenburg.

The mixer ground gears, stuttered, and made a small sound along the lines of kerpow! before spewing a cloud of dark smoke in my face. I coughed and choked. What had Arthur said to do? Tell a joke. Somewhere in my brain, I had surely stored half a dozen funny stories of culinary mishaps. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of one.

Fanning away the smoke, I blinked at the bank of lights. Arthur furiously scribbled a command, then, scowling, held up his clipboard: COOK!!!

I locked the bowl into the behemoth backup mixer. Bigger, more powerful beaters roared into clumps of butter and dark brown sugar. Encouraged, I tentatively cracked an eggshell on the bowl’s rim. Although I expected the egg to rupture, the first yolk and white plopped politely into the swirling mixture.

“As easy as cookies are to prepare,” I announced nonchalantly to the crimson camera light, “some skiers would prefer to spend their day on the slopes. So they’ll turn dessert preparation over to their personal chef!” I added with a two-hundred-watt smile. I was prevented from further self-advertisement by Arthur, who was waving his clipboard at me. Faster!!! it screamed.

The second egg was uncooperative. When I cracked the shell, the egg exploded. Arthur went to overhead cam in time to shoot errant eggshell daggers floating briefly on the batter before being gulped into the creamy vortex. I could imagine perplexed viewers calling in to ask: Does the recipe call for eggshells? How long has this woman been in the food business?

Cursing silently, I stirred molasses into the batter and slapped in a tumblerful of vinegar. I brandished a flat grater and insisted that grating whole nutmeg was essential. While demonstrating, I unfortunately grated three of my right knuckles, and blood spurted onto the nutmeg flecks. Without bothering to sift or whisk the flour and spices together, I dumped the whole mess into the molasses mixture and clicked the mixer over to “stir.” The mixer moaned and sent up a windspout of spicy flour. I groped for a towel to wipe the powdery mess off my face. My microphone squealed.

Mexican Egg Rolls