“There’s nothing average about the average housewife,” she corrected.
* * *
—
“Walter,” Elizabeth was saying after the song had finally finished. “Are you listening? I think I can solve our wardrobe problem in two words. Lab coat.”
“No.”
“It would give the show a more professional feel.”
“No,” he said again, thinking of Lebensmal’s very clear expectations. “Believe me. No.”
“Why not approach this scientifically? I’ll wear it for the first week, then we’ll review the results.”
“This isn’t a lab,” he explained for the billionth time. “This is a kitchen.”
“Speaking of the kitchen, how’s the set going?”
“It’s not quite ready. We’re still working on the lighting.”
But that wasn’t true: the set had been ready for days. From the eyelet curtains at the fake window to the various knickknacks that clogged the counters, it was the ultimate Good Housekeeping kitchen. She would hate it.
“Were you able to get the specialized instruments I need?” she asked. “The Bunsen burner? The oscilloscope?”
“About that,” he said. “The thing is, most home cooks won’t have that sort of thing. But I was able to round up nearly everything else on your list: utensils, the mixer—”
“Gas stove?”
“Yes.”
“Eye wash station, of course.”
“Y-yes,” he said, thinking of the sink.
“I guess we can always add the Bunsen burner later. It’s quite useful.”
“I bet.”
“What about the work surfaces?”
“The stainless steel you requested was unaffordable.”
“Well that’s odd,” she said. “Nonreactive surfaces are usually quite inexpensive.”
Walter nodded as if he were surprised too, but he wasn’t. He’d picked out the Formica countertops himself: a fun-filled laminate flecked with shiny gold confetti.
“Look,” he said. “I know our goal is about making food that matters—good-tasting, nutritious food. But we want to be careful not to alienate people. We have to make cooking look inviting. You know. Fun.”
“Fun?”
“Because otherwise people won’t watch us.”
“But cooking isn’t fun,” she explained. “It’s serious business.”
“Right,” he said. “But it could be a little fun, couldn’t it?”
Elizabeth frowned. “Not really.”
“Right,” he said, “but maybe just a little fun. A smidge fun,” he said, holding up his forefinger and squeezing it next to his thumb to show just how little. “The thing is, Elizabeth, and you probably already know this, TV is governed by three hard and fast rules.”
“You mean rules of decency,” she said. “Standards.”
“Decency? Standards?” He thought of Lebensmal. “No. I meant actual rules.” He used his fingers to count. “Rule one: entertain. Rule two: entertain. Rule three: entertain.”
“But I’m not an entertainer. I’m a chemist.”
“Right,” he said, “but on TV, we need you to be an entertaining chemist. And do you know why? I can sum it up in one word. Afternoon.”
“Afternoon.”
“Afternoon. Just saying the word makes me sleepy. Does it make you sleepy?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe that’s because you’re a scientist. You already know about circadian rhythms.”
“Everyone knows about circadian rhythms, Walter. My four-year-old knows about circadian—”
“You mean your five-year-old,” he interrupted. “Madeline has to be at least five to be in kindergarten.”
Elizabeth waved her hand as if to move on. “You were saying about circadian rhythms.”
“Right,” he said, “As you well know, humans are biologically programmed to sleep twice a day— a siesta in the afternoon, then eight hours of sleep at night.”
She nodded.
“Except most of us skip the siesta because our jobs demand it. And when I say most of us, I really just mean Americans. Mexico doesn’t have this problem, nor does France or Italy or any of those other countries that drink even more than we do at lunch. Still, the fact remains: human productivity naturally drops in the afternoon. In TV, this is referred to as the Afternoon Depression Zone. Too late to get anything meaningful done; too early to go home. Doesn’t matter if you’re a homemaker, a fourth grader, a bricklayer, a businessman—no one is immune. Between the hours of one thirty-one and four forty-four p.m., productive life as we know it ceases to exist. It’s a virtual death zone.”