Love Cookin'

Prologue

Sandi Cramer had never seen so many glamorous people in one place before. She couldn't believe the size or the brightness of the spotlights lighting up the high clouds over the theater. Spectators lined the street beyond the barricade trying to see who was getting out of the line of limos pulling up to the curb. She couldn't begin to count the sequins and precious jewels on the women, and even the men, all around her.

She slowly walked up the red carpet, keeping several feet between her and the couple entering ahead of her. She felt the urge to wipe her damp palms on the sides of her dress, but she didn't dare. The floor length creation that she wore cost more than ten of the fanciest dresses she had ever owned before. And it hadn't been easy to find. There aren't many such extravagant dresses made for women who are seven months pregnant.

Most of all, she still couldn’t believe that she actually belonged here. Her television show, Love Cookin', had been nominated for an Emmy. When she began her first cooking show at her uncle's little television station in Iowa fifteen years ago, she never dreamed it would catapult her to such a success. She was just doing what she loved doing.

Pausing when a reporter stuck a microphone in her face, Sandi knew to smile as the bright lights were aimed in her direction. Miss Cramer, you look gorgeous, the woman told her.

Sandi smiled and wondered if the camera on her would pick up the fact that her lower lip was trembling. She was an old hand at being on camera, so she shouldn't feel nervous, but she did tonight. Thank you so much, she replied, keeping the smile.

I just wanted to tell you that I have never missed one of your shows if I could help it. I think they are great. And I have to admit that your show has even gotten me into the kitchen to try my hand at cooking. The reporter laughed. I never learned to cook at home, and I never thought I could cook, but you make it look so easy. So good luck tonight.

Sandi didn't even get a chance to thank her before the portable lights were off her and on someone coming up the stairs behind her. Relieved, she quickened her step just a bit. Once inside the huge foyer, she looked for the ladies' room, something she seemed to have to find every five minutes lately. She didn't remember that with her first pregnancy, but that was ten years ago. Their son Bruce surprised them less than a year after they were married. She smiled thinking of all the cards and letters her viewers had sent. This little imp was a surprise they were very happy about.

Coming back out into the crush several minutes later, she wished she had kept a paper towel with her to wipe her damp palms on. She laughed to herself just thinking how that would look. One of the short aprons she always wore on camera would sure come in handy.

Running into a few people she knew as she headed for her aisle helped dissolve her nervousness a bit. She had met them at various points in her career in television. Tonight, they were all just interested in who would win the Emmys. Because she was nominated for one, they all wished her well.

As she walked down the aisle to find her seat, she didn't see any of the celebrities whose shows were also nominated in her category, but that was fine by her. She'd only ever met two of them—both of them men.

A young man in a tuxedo showed her to her seat. He hadn't known who she was, and she had to show him her invitation to get in. A humbling experience for some, she imagined. She was glad that she had put it in her beaded purse. He smiled an apology for not recognizing her, but she didn't imagine he watched a lot of cooking shows.

Here's your row, he said. You're in the second seat.

She thanked him and slid into the red velvet seat, luxuriating in the simple comfort that sitting down gave her nowadays as her daughter grew larger and heavier. Her seat was in the side section, and she was surprised, but pleased that it was only second from the aisle. The seat next to her remained empty, as she knew it would, as the row filled up beyond her.

She rose to let another couple pass her more easily. Looking around as they sidestepped past her was like thumbing through a Who's Who in Television book. Because her work since leaving Iowa had always been in public television or The Food Channel, she hadn't met many of them personally. As people stopped in the aisle by her seat and greeted her though, she was pleasantly surprised that so many knew who she was. Sandi smiled, but she still had a hard time believing that her lifelong dreams of a successful career in television had become reality.

In the television studio, she worked alone with the cameras aimed at her and the counter before her or the cooktop at the end. She could totally ignore the people checking the props, adjusting the lighting, and even the ones who wanted to powder her nose or fuss over her hair.

All that attention was fun, but it hadn't been like that for very long. When she'd first moved from Iowa to Chicago to work at the bigger station, she'd had a live audience in the studio watching her every move. That was a long time ago, but she remembered that having to entertain real live people took some getting used to. It sure wasn't like when she started in television back in the mid-1990s.

Back then she was a new graduate from college working for her uncle who owned the local television station, KANT. The towers didn't send a very strong signal, so few saw her show beyond her own town. That little town in Iowa where it all had begun was a long way away from where she was tonight, but she'd loved it there. That's where she met her husband. Thinking how close he came to firing her took her breath away.

She wished her uncle and her aunt, who had been so supportive of her early efforts on the tube, could be sitting beside her for the Emmys, but they had died within months of each other about five years ago. They had gotten to know her son, but the sweetie she was carrying now would never know their kindness and love.

The back of her eyes stung with tears of regret. Not going to happen, she warned herself sternly as she pulled a lacy handkerchief from her purse and dabbed the moisture from the corners of her eyes in a way she was certain wouldn't mess her makeup. She wished that her husband were there next to her. But he would be soon. He promised that he would be sitting there before her category came up. He had been so supportive and encouraging since, well, almost from the beginning—that is except for when he said he would fire her.

She smiled because meeting him for the first time had almost heralded the end of any association she would have with television other than watching it in her living room. Those weeks had almost heralded the end of KANT, the Iowa television station for which she had worked so hard.

She still remembered all the events on the fateful day that could have been the beginning of the end…

Chapter One

Smiling at the television camera, Sandi Cramer held out a beautifully arranged platter of cut fruit. A second camera focusing on the overhead mirror to see the details of what she was cooking, shifted in seconds to pan to the table where she drizzled a sweet lemony sauce over the fruit.

There. Now that we have the fruit ready, we'll see how those cranberry scones in the oven are coming, she said. They must be about done by now. Her smile for the camera still in place as usual, the first cameraman switched to a head-and-shoulders shot of her.

Unexpected sudden movements off camera caught her attention though she resisted looking in that direction or even frowning because all her shows went on the air live. Her cooking shows were well planned, and there should be no reason for impromptu signals. But the floor manager was waving madly and pointing to the far end of her television-studio kitchen. As Sandi straightened behind the table, she glanced in that direction and saw what he had already seen—smoke pouring out of the wall oven.

Her scones were in there.

With a calmness she'd developed during just a year of doing this and other live shows on KANT, she crossed to the wall oven and quipped, Oh, dear. Looks like we might have a problem with the scones.

Pressing the proper square on the panel to turn off the oven first, she pulled on the pair of red oven mitts and cautiously opened the oven door. Smoke billowed out, and she had to duck back to keep her head out of the gray cloudy path that shot upwards with intense heat.

Yes, I'd say we definitely do have a problem. Keeping her smile in place was getting harder and harder by the minute.

Blinking against the smoke, she lifted out one of the sheets of burning scones, shut the oven door, and walked to the deep, stainless steel sink on the back wall of the set-kitchen. The pan was so hot she could feel it through the gloves that had shielded her completely in the past. She was afraid to go back to get the other sheet of scones and wished she hadn't made so many to have enough to feed the crew after the show.

Dropping the pan of flaming scones into the sink, she immediately turned on the water and angled the spray nozzle she grabbed from beside the faucet to put out the flames. The hot sheet pan snapped loudly as it bent when the cold water hit it, making her jump visibly.

Returning to the counter facing the cameras, she noted that the floor manager was now pounding on the controls for the oven, not caring how much noise he was making.

I think the problem is with the oven temperature, she said into the camera with a smile, only now her smile was a lot more work to keep up. She dragged in a deep breath.

Let's check if there's anything else I need to do to make certain the oven is off until we can have it checked.

Crossing to the wall oven again as the floor manager jumped out of camera range, she could see by the LED readout on the front that the oven temperature was still rising. She'd turned the oven off earlier, and the floor manager had hit the off panel several times. Why wasn't it off?

It's not off, the panicked manager off camera whispered none to softly.

Obviously, she said with a smile for the camera, knowing the viewers must have heard him. I can see the switch is malfunctioning. The oven didn't turn off when we pressed it.

She pushed harder on the off switch several times, but nothing happened. Turning to the camera once again, she let the viewing audience in on the cause of her problem.

The oven on/off switch is definitely not working. I have to ask my floor manager to turn off the circuit breaker to the oven before it gets any hotter, she said, pointedly glancing in his direction. All the while, she repeatedly pushed the Off switch on the oven. Now! It's getting hotter and hotter, she said more loudly looking in his direction. Even turning the oven setting down to warm did nothing to stop the rise in temperature that continued. The panel read over 600 degrees. Considering it unsafe to be near, she stepped back to her spot behind the counter.

The floor manager stared at her and shrugged. I don't know which one it is, he said without bothering to whisper.

They're labeled. Do it now! she ordered in a firm voice that she hoped didn't come across the television airways as shouting. But at this point…

A sharp crack from the oven behind her made her cry out and jump away, turning her back to the oven. Shielding her face with her arm, she looked back to see that the wood cabinet framing the oven, like it would in a real kitchen, had cracked lengthwise from the heat.

Find that circuit breaker and get it off now, she repeated to the manager who hadn't moved. Only now she was shouting. The man had to do it now. The box right there by the steel cabinet on the wall, she added, pointing toward it.

Turning back to the camera, she gave up trying to smile. This kind of problem is why you always want to know which of your circuit breakers or fuses is for your oven or range. Why not mark it today? Write 'oven' next to it in clear letters with permanent ink. Adding a dab of red fingernail polish to the switch to make it easy to find in a rush wouldn't hurt, she extemporized. Then you can find it quickly when you need to turn it off.

By then the smell of hot metal added to the dark smoke that surrounded her and made her start to cough. Unable to draw a breath of clean air, she pulled off the apron she was wearing and held it over her mouth and nose.

At that same moment, two other things happened. The heat in the oven had gotten so intense that she heard a pop from the control panel at the top. The red temperature numbers that had been displaying the temperature rise suddenly disappeared and the whole panel was black. That had to mean the end of the oven's control panel. That was good. With the panel burned out, the oven was finally off.

Or so she hoped.

However, also at that moment, smoke still rising from the oven exhaust vents reached the fire and smoke detectors high on the walls of the studio. All the sprinklers that had been installed every few feet across the ceiling turned on with a sputter.

Water raining down led to further problems.

Before she could move, the lights that had been tipped up and aimed in her direction exploded from the cold water hitting the hot glass. Resembling a fireworks show with high-flying rockets, the lamps each blew up with a bang and sent a shower of shattered glass raining down to the studio floor.

Focused on a shot of Sandi standing in the spray with her heavy television eye makeup running down her cheeks in black streaks to the apron covering her nose and mouth, the cameras lost power. But the cameramen were already bent over their charges, pulling plastic sheets up and around each one to protect them from the spray of water and their own backs from the falling shards of glass. Heading out the studio door as quickly as they could manage, they bounced their way over the thick cables snaking across the floor as they went but managed to keep the cameras upright.

Sandi grabbed the flat plastic dish drainer base to hold over her head like an umbrella. None of the broken lights had been directly over her, but she was getting soaked to the skin. At least she could breathe without coughing now that the spray had cleaned the air of the smoke. She tossed the apron on the counter.

Can't you find the circuit breaker yet? she shouted against the patter of the spraying water. She knew she didn't have a show on the air to consider any longer, but the oven still worried her.

I think I got it, the floor manager called as he turned back from the circuit box. I couldn't see very well back there, and I had to shut it fast 'cause of the water falling all over. I didn't want to get electrocuted.

Sandi pushed her wet hair off her forehead and out of her eyes with the back of her hand. The last of the lights had popped, but the flat piece of plastic on her head still helped keep off the water that continued to rain down from the sprinklers. This oven must have gotten hotter than it does even for the automatic cleaning cycle. I want to make very sure it's off.

Suddenly, the whole studio was pitched into total darkness.

That's one way of doing it, she muttered with an exasperated sigh. Are you all right? she called to the floor manager, the only other person remaining in the studio with her after the cameramen left to get their cameras to safety in the dry reception area.

Right as rain, came the gruff reply. Now all we have to do it wait.

Ha, ha, ha, she replied.

And still the water sprayed down. Cold water.

Neither Sandi nor the floor manager could move in the pitch darkness. In thirty seconds, as they had expected, the safety light high on the wall, wired in a separate circuit for emergencies, turned on after it sensed the continued loss of electricity in the studio. Installed higher than the water sprinklers, it remained on.

Sandi looked down to see the water collecting on her beautiful fruit plate, on her yummy asparagus frittata, and on her crispy, sweet-potato hash browns. Her delicious stuffed ham rolls were soaking up water like little sponges. Her scones in the sink reminded her of black grave markers.

What a waste, she said and groaned.

The station couldn't afford the expense, but all the food and her daily show were a total loss. But KANT was lucky the falling glass had cut no one. It was the first time she was glad of the staff cuts. The loss of staff had meant that no one else had been in the studio.

At this point the only good thing about getting drenched was that no one could see that tears welled in her eyes. She had a college degree in food science and television production and a year of experience in front of a camera to get her where she was today—working in her small town's only television station, getting soaking wet, and having her show thrown off the air.

Now, even the excellent ratings her cooking shows garnered on normal days in her eastern Iowa hometown would not be enough. Not if the new corporate owners, the company that had bought station KANT out of bankruptcy a month ago from her uncle Bernie, decided to use this catastrophe as an excuse to fire absolutely everyone and shut down the little station.

Everyone already suspected that they had bought the station as a tax loss, and this would cinch it. Maybe they had rigged the oven, she thought with a frown. It had worked for her show the day before with no problems.

But it wasn't in her to think that badly of them. Born and bred in the small country town, she always tried to see the best in people just like her cooking shows tried to get people cooking even if they had little experience in the kitchen.

Dripping wet and cold, she had nowhere to go to escape the shower because stepping outside through the back door would only be colder. She leaned against the counter and tipped her head up to keep the water from running into her eyes from her hair until someone turned off the sprinklers.

She couldn't help thinking: if this was the final straw and they closed the station now, what would she do?

Joshua Pressman had been the KANT temporary station manager for only three weeks, but his reputation for being a sharp decision maker had come with him. People all wondered, could he turn a bad situation at the station into a good one, or would he decide to shut the place down to cut their losses?

The new owners had assigned him the task of getting KANT onto firm financial feet—fast. They gave him all the power he needed to hire, or more likely, to fire in order to cut costs. He hadn't come to this little town, with its ancient television station opened decades before, to