video camcorder for Christmas. When I learned what that big, cumbersome camera could do, it was as if I’d seen the face of God. Not only could I dream up my own shows and episodes, I could film them and play them back.
Gran was a really good sport about it all. She let me set the camera on its tripod and play unfortunate selections of background music while I interviewed her.
‘I was never homesick,’ she said, talking to me – not the camera. ‘This place has always felt more like home to me than the big city. You see, I believe some people are born in the place they belong. Others have to go looking for it. That was me: I went looking, and I found this place. It’s my heart’s home, and I thank God every day that I’m able to spend my life here.’
She talked of her life in Boston and how, as a young woman, she worked in a restaurant called Durgin-Park. It was a place that had been in existence for three hundred years. The tourists would come for baked beans and to be sassed by the waitresses. It was there, during the lunch rush, that she met a handsome Vermonter who had come down one summer weekend to see the sights of Boston. She proudly told everyone that, yes, she sassed him. At Durgin-Park it was expected.
Less than a year later she bade her family farewell and boarded a train up to Vermont, which in those days was as distant and untamed as the Wild West, to hear her tell it.
With the red camera light running and me directing things with zero expertise but an excess of enthusiasm, she created many of the family favourites. Somewhere in my digital archives there’s footage of her making ice cream pie, scalloped potatoes, squash roasted with maple butter and salt, potato and ricotta gnocchi, salads bright with tomatoes just harvested in her legendary summer garden, home-made jam from the berries we picked, crisp pickles preserved without one single drop of vinegar.
If you ever watch a cooking show, pay close attention to the chef’s hands. The very best chefs on the air handle food with grace and confidence – and with love. Even in the grainy old digital files of my grandmother, back when my camera skills were rudimentary at best, you can still see this trait. She is absolutely sure of herself in the kitchen – and driven by a mission to care for people by feeding them. When preparing a meal, a good chef knows instinctively that love is the key ingredient, no matter what else you add to the dish. In fact, that’s how I came up with the name for the show I produce – The Key Ingredient.
As a student in film school, the last thing I expected was to be the creative force behind a hit cooking show.
Confession: my real dream was to be the creative force in front of the camera, too. That’s not how events unfolded, but I can’t complain. I did the next best thing. I discovered the talented, charismatic, totally hot chef who was chosen to host the show – Martin Harlow.
He was a food cart chef in Washington Square Park, just barely scraping by but attracting an avid following of foodies who appreciated his culinary skills and groupies who admired his matinée-idol looks. I was a film student at NYU’s Tisch School, trying to recover from a shattered heart after walking away from the best man I’d ever known.
Martin became the topic of my senior project, a short documentary film. After it was posted on the internet, the film went viral, and we were offered the opportunity to film a pilot with an option for more episodes of a cooking show for a new start-up network. The day we got the green light he picked me up and danced me around the room, and then he kissed me long and hard. It was a good kiss. A really, really good kiss, full of promise. But no. This is work. This is our shot. We can’t screw this up.
Still, I catch myself fantasizing about being a pair on-screen. The Sonny and Cher of the kitchen. The culinary Captain & Tenille. Martin admits he fantasizes about the two of us off-screen.
While in the development phase, we filmed some test reels with me in the role of cohost, but they claimed my ‘look’ wasn’t right for the series. I still remember how I felt, hearing that. As if I’d swallowed a ball of ice and had to pretend nothing was wrong. In show business you can’t take things like that personally. And you can’t argue with the executive producer, AKA the owner of the show.
Above all, you can’t worry that the idea you created is now at the mercy of a committee of production and network executives whose chief aim is to attract sponsorship dollars. In commercial TV, that would be the key ingredient. Already, I can feel the creative control slipping away as they talk about future episodes, going over the top with expensive stunts, like diving for oysters, foraging for truffles or milking a Nubian goat. I’m starting to wonder what happened to the original concept for the show. Sometimes it feels as if the original idea is being overshadowed by theatrics and attention-grabbing segments that were never part of my initial vision.
Then I remind myself of how lucky I am just to have been in the right place at the right time with the right talent. Most people my age only dream of getting such a great start in the business. It’s only the beginning.
They cast Melissa Judd in the role of cohost. Martin met her in his yoga class. Her former gig was hawking kitchen gadgets on a late-night shopping network, but apparently her look is perfect for our show’s target demographic. She’s blonde and beautiful – which makes up for the fact that her delivery tends to be shrill and overwrought.
To her credit, she’s a hard worker and a quick learner. I should know. It was my job to train her to be more genuine on camera, to play up her natural chemistry with Martin. I did a good job, because their on-screen chemistry is amazing. So amazing that I sometimes feel threatened by it.
As our van with the crew trolls through the main part of Switchback, I start to worry about the weather. The sky is bulging with low, grey clouds and rain hisses against the windshield. It’s not the sort of blue-sky, snow-dusted weather we were hoping for. But this time of year you take your chances.
I sneak glances at the others in the van. Martin has his head pillowed on a wadded-up jacket, still sleeping off the redeye flight. He sleeps like a dream, a trait I envy. Melissa is coming down with a cold – not the best thing when you’re about to go on camera. She’s been using decongestant and eyedrops all through the trip. At the moment, she’s absorbed in her phone screen, posting snippets on social networks so the world can follow along on her adventure. I spotted her latest mobile shot – a sign bearing the town slogan – Welcome to Switchback. Once you Switch, you’ll never go Back. Her caption: Hi there, adorable Vermont village. We’re about to film something sweet! #thekeyingredient
I’ve been told that I do mornings very well. I love the morning light streaming in through the windows. I love the rich aroma of fresh coffee. Martin does mornings well, too; he’s a fantastic chef who can put together a quick sauté of surprising ingredients – say, smoked salmon and fresh peas, topped with a poached egg and horseradish crème fraîche. After something like that, the day opens up with possibility.
But this day?… I’m not so sure.
As the van slows down in the town centre, Martin wakes up, stretching his long, lean body and letting out a groan. ‘Are we there yet?’ he asks.
It’s not fair that he looks so good after a redeye flight. ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Welcome to Switchback.’
‘Coffee,’ he says. ‘Is there coffee in Switchback?’
‘There’s a diner over there.’ I indicate the Star Lite Café, a Switchback institution since before I was born. After high school football games we used to go there for hot chocolate, sitting on the benches outside as the scent of autumn spiced the air.
They don’t have autumn in LA.
Martin
