“This is a terrific opportunity,” said Edgar. Because this was the season finale, the show was being aired live. The proceedings were underway, and on the video monitors I saw that the contestants had been assigned to make trifle, an especially English dessert. I texted my dad and got back emojis of applauding hands and cartwheeling chefs along with “TRIFLE!!! You’re in for a TREAT!!!”

The tent was arranged with twenty workstations stocked with sinks, mini-fridges, restaurant-grade stoves, counter space and drawers of pots, pans and utensils. The contestants, recruited from all over the country, could bring a limited number of “lucky” knives, whisks, sifters and measuring spoons. Everyone was wearing the show’s signature aprons, which, as the baking progressed, became daubed with ingredients. The show combined cutthroat competition with heartwarming individual backstories, as everyone bustled painstakingly to complete their trifles before the one-hour deadline, with the hosts dropping by each workstation to offer passive-aggressive tips like “Ah, so we’re moving toward clotted cream” or “Won’t that be marvelous, if it doesn’t congeal.”

Staff members with clipboards and headsets summoned us for the climax of the telecast. I texted my dad, “It’s happening!” and he replied, “If you don’t bring me an apron don’t bother coming home.”

“Won’t this be a lark!” trilled Maureen, checking her makeup in a mirror held by her minder for the umpteenth time, and it occurred to me that Maureen’s head could become a future Baking Jubilee Cranberry-Pistachio Baked Alaska challenge.

“And did Edgar mention,” said Gerald, “this is Nana’s favourite program? So I’m sure she’s watching.”

“You see?” Edgar told me. “Just being on this show will make Nana worship you. Along with the entire world. It’s the ideal event.”

“You’re both so brave,” said Gerald.

“Contestants, and viewers all across the globe,” said Agatha Benwhistle, standing at the front of the tent beside a long, Last Supper–style table covered with a white cloth, “the time has come.” Agatha was somewhere in her sixties, stout and wearing a forgiving corduroy tunic, wide-legged purple pants and comfortable shoes with rubber soles. Her hair was a silver thatched-roof bob, and she spoke in a good-tempered, booming, beloved headmistress’s voice; she was devoted to English baking, often posted photos of her three basset hounds wearing the turtlenecks and booties she knitted for them and never humiliated contestants. Her worst assessments were “Well, you’ll live to bake another day” or “At the end of the day, it’s only a smoked walnut flaxseed muffin, not an ailing grandparent.”

“I can barely contain myself,” said Miles Tanney, who was half Agatha’s age, with a background as a bubbly podcast host (Smiles from Miles), commercial spokesperson (for everything from kebab skewers to garden hoses) and YouTube influencer (with videos where he organized closets “by necessity and mood”). His giddy cheerleading was a great foil for Agatha’s earthy straightforwardness.