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loudly from five to one. The red light on top of Camera One blinked on. I took a shaky breath.
    "Greetings from Killdeer!" I began, and hoped I was the only one who could hear the wobble in my voice. "A very special show today commemorates the loss of a dear friend of the Front Range Public Broadcasting System. . . ." And I talked on about how we remembered Nate, how special his show had been to those of us who'd been regular viewers. Then I gave the phone number where folks could call in, and segued into a cheerful review of the show's menu.
    My screen showed the visual for the egg rolls. When the camera returned to me, I mixed the cheeses with the other south-of-the-border ingredients and swiftly rolled them into the wrappers. I slid the egg rolls into a deep-fat fryer that Chef Jack, hovering on the sidelines, had set to the proper temperature, and we were on our way. If I could only ignore the two cameras intimately focused on me, I thought, I'd be fine. I'm never happier than when I'm cooking.
    I launched into my patter about buying crab and mixing it with easy-to-find ingredients. I smiled at the camera, mixed the ingredients for the sauce, and patted rich cracker crumbs on both sides of the soft, luscious cakes. Then I dropped them into the hot sauté pan with a tantalizing splat. The phones rang; I gabbled on about food and love going together.
    Standing beside Jack Gilkey, Eileen grinned crazily when I commented that the Summit Bistro was a cozy, romantic spot to enjoy lunch during a day of skiing. Arthur shot Jack a dark look and swigged Pepto-Bismol. I rolled on.
    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