Chapter 1: Preamble
It was the first time in the however many sweeps Her Imperious Condescension’s time on ‘Earth’ that she realized a window might be closing.
It was on the radio – a quaint, insecure light-speed transmission method she’d encountered on a few planets – again. Another mission to the Earth’s moon. The humans hadn’t landed on it yet – they were being annoyingly cautious, too afraid they’d lose one of there precious cosmonauts or astronauts or whatever. But it would happen soon. Within the next ‘year’ – a term she’d only come to associate with things freezing over.
But inevitably – if they had the actual chutzpah to colonize their satellite or not – there would be cameras in orbit. Eventually numerous enough to start being pointed whatever direction whimsy would merit. It would be harder to hide secrets yet to be made… even if Earth’s technology was not ready yet to make those secrets.
There was a compelling case to step away from Crocker Corp and finally do some other projects. The gold was there, even if the talent and physical resources needed to be built up.
She’d had these thoughts a few times, as the news spiked about new rockets and humans in orbit, always unrecognizable names, never for more than a few nights. But she pushed them aside. Things were comfortable. Company work was engaging. The mansion, the luxury in relative anonymity were…
The Betty Crocker persona had to be gotten rid of to proceed. Not killed off, per se, but it could no longer head the company.
And it had to be public. Verifiable. She had to make things uncomfortable for herself.
What made it worse was that Doc Scratch’s old “Care Package” was slowly deteriorating. Leave it to him to not embrace the concept of replaceable batteries. But the old “Horn and Fin Cloak” would still work for a few hours at a time. Not the days on end it used to do.
Well, psionics would cover the gap, if managed right. Humans were already great at not noticing details that weren’t pointed out to them.
Still, It had to be big. Public. Hearst.
~
It was sometime in early June, 1969, that Morris Williamette contacted Ella Cousins. The two knew each other – Good Housekeeping, the Magazine, had used to employ both of them before Ella had moved on a few years prior.
There were a few short pleasantries before Williamette tried to get to the point, “We’ve got, um, a big project underway. A capital-e-Exclusive interview in planning, with a boatload of money behind it.”
“Even when I was with the magazine, Morrie, I didn’t do interviews.”
“Which is apparently why you’re wanted. As close as I can figure out it’s a cat and mouse game being set up for you – could be wrong of course. All the muckraking you care to do, and … well, it’s looking like three days to interview early September. For pay that will bump both our tax brackets.”
“And just who merits putting money behind being exposed like that?”
“Crocker Corporation if footing the bill. Supposedly, Betty Crocker herself.”
“She… exists? I thought that was just branding. I mean, Crocker is not a new company.”
“Well, I’ve talked to someone claiming to be Betty Crocker a few times, and we’ve gotten a few confirmations from the company.”
“So… my job is to research to confirm a person exists, then interview her?”
“That sounds like a good summary. This is a parent-level thing, so anything Hearst can do to help is open – Travel, requests for access, and so on. I still need to figure out a few other names to fill out an interview crew. Photos, audio, that sort of thing.”
“I know numbers change – but exactly how much…”
A number was stated. “This is sabbatical money, Ella.”
“If you can get me… 10% up front, I’ll look into making arrangements. And Hearst has newspapers In Crocker Corp’s home town, I’d assume?”
“Minneapolis. I’ll get you a number.”
~
The Milwaukee Sentinel & Telegram was happy to send copies from their microfiche archives, which had plenty about Crocker Corp’s rise, but the Los Angeles Evening Herald and Express’ archives – currently themselves being preserved to microfiche – had an interesting thread come up in response to a general call for info.
The Herald had advertisements – and coverage – of a stage show – “Masters of Wit and Physique” – that ended right before the first Crocker Bakery was founded in ’24. A “Colonel Sassacre”, apparently trying to follow in the steps of Mark Twain, was the Comedic Wit, and a Betty Crocker was the Physique – An acrobat of sorts, though the review didn’t seem to have the words to concretely specify her act, but it seemed vaudeville style – a little sparse, but it would have had to be to survive the first World War.
Sassacre was, apparently, published – a few editions of an apparently even larger original joke-book were spread among twin city libraries.
A quick inquiry confirmed, to Cousins’ surprise, that it was the same Crocker. And Betty would be happy to talk about those years, but they didn’t seem particularly relevant to her expectations for the article.
~
When she arrived two weeks before the interview in Minneapolis, Cousins got her factory tour – she tried to be interested, but industry was most boring on the floor. It was Crocker Corp’s own archives she was eager to get to.
Williamette was already there, unusually, renting the location – a warehouse in decent repair, but still looking for an owner – it wasn’t a very convenient location. Generators were rented, along with a dumpster, contractors contracted. The contractors got a kick out of how large the set was supposed to be – not in square feet, as it was only a “kitchen” and a “living room”, suitable for a television show. But in how everything was scaled up. 4×4 wooden beams where 2×4 should have sufficed, a set counter you felt like a child trying to peak over. It was like building a doll house in reverse – on top of the novelty of a television set. But, Williamette insisted on the specifications required, and the work was getting done quickly.
Midweek the photographer made it in, and his light-rigging assistant. Right behind them came furniture – a little used, which made sense with most rented props – but large. Suspecting something was up, the rigger grabbed the contractors to make some quick elevated platforms for tripods to sit on – some quick side money.
No one from Crocker Corp came to check the venue before the appointed date. There were just daily calls, asking for progress. It was odd, for how much they had invested in the interview.
It was only three days before the interview they got the call – All expected staff should be on set early tomorrow morning, and nobody else. Betty Crocker was coming to confirm her specifications.
Chapter 2
It was early – 6 AM, the piercing orange light of sunrise shining onto walls through the high windows, that by design never actually hit the floor as the sun rose. Six people sat around a pair of tables, most nursing mugs of coffee. Cousins had tried to get their names – but other than Williamette, who’s she already known, only “Brenold” had stuck – the one dressed sharp enough to have a martini rather than the brown stuff, who would in charge of makeup and wardrobe. The others were, really, not much more than their roles. A tape technician, in the likely event that some extract some usable conversation for Radio, or later reference, had his reel-to-reel almost set up. The photographer – they had shared a few notes, and ultimately Cousins would be in a few of his pictures, but he was giving off the vibe her would have been more comfortable in New York. His lighting technician was bit more down-to-earth, and not so desperate to be on foot rather than car. And there was a Gofer – a local to run errands as needed. Cousins wondered if he was from Crocker Corp, but no, he was just from a local temp agency.
A car horn sounded outside – and the Gofer leapt to action, jogging outside as everybody started to rise to their feet, walking back in, hauling open one of the warehouses’ large garage doors.
Things seemed to get fuzzy – a little like a dream girl had come into frame in a movie. An immaculate stretch limousine, windows dark, something from before WWII – The lighting guy wondered if it were a Graham of some sort – promptly pulled in. It’s engine cranked to a halt once the garage door started to close behind it, thankfully not filling the warehouse with exhaust.
The driver that exited was young – black suit that mostly fit, red shirt, no tie, a little disheveled. He didn’t quite look like he knew what was going on. He took a moment gather his bearings – or to listen to something his passenger said – before circling around around the car to open the door.
Given her notes, Cousins had expected a 70 year old woman, possibly a lively one, but that would still probably need some help, to emerge.
She – they – got a leg. And a second, more than filling the car’s small passenger door. Slowly a giant form twisted itself out of a hole that wasn’t built for it, managing to stay upright as a massive body unfolded from the car’s cabin.
The furniture – the set dimensions – now made sense. If anything, they might be a little on the small side.
The giant took a moment to stretch her arms up, bones popping from the exertion, “)(ey, Jean, next time I say get the car ready for the interview, I mean the truck, got it?”
He simply nodded, closing the door behind her, standing at mock-attention.
“Missus… erm… Betty Crocker, I presume?” Williamette stepped forward, his uncertainty telegraphed by his face. He offered a hand.
“Betty, please.” She took his hand. Like an adult taking a child’s – there was an impression that she was actively trying not to rip his arm off. When she released, when he turned back to make introductions, he was already going for a handkerchief to mop the sweat off his brow. He was calming down quickly, at least. Or maybe it was his showmanship, but … for half a moment the size of the woman in front of them just seemed… normal. Not something you’d expect to see only in record books.
“…and Ella Cousins, your interviewer. I believe you requested her specifically?”
“Yes, yes. I appreciate someone who can weave together a good fiction,” the handshake was followed almost dainty.
“And, most important at the moment, I think, Cly Brenold. He’ll be handling makeup and wardrobe.”
Neither Brenold nor Crocker offered a hand. They only spent a minute staring at each other.
“No makeup. I can handle that myself. Wardrobe – I’ll allow it. Jean – fish out the luggage for this dude, ” she said, turning back to her driver, “And then take off. I’ll expect you back with the truck in an hour.”
Brenold and Williamette exchanged glances as she did – the latter just giving a sort of shrug.
Brenold finally spoke up, “I hope your… wardrobe is a bit more..” there was a certain note of dislike on his voice, as his eyes again went over the pleats of the shirt, The poof of what certainly was not pants, the bolero that he would have scoffed with on a woman with no assets to manage “There’s not much time to tailor anything respectable. I’d need measurements A. S. A. P.”
“Oh, it is,” Betty’s own voice picked up a note of venom, “The blazer and hat – red and green – are for the cover, by the way. I can have a dress form sent if the other clothes aren’t sufficient. Other than that, let me know before you go altering my stuff. It’s been in competent hands.” The teeth she showed were – peak condition.
He took the luggage from “Jean” and dragged if back to the table, grumbling all the way. A moment later the garage door was reopened – a moment for the bright light of dawn to flood into the sterile warehouse – as the limo quickly pulled out. Then it was controlled by darkness once again.
~
There was a lot of talking for the next hour. Reviewing starter questions. Going over the sets – A Living Room and a Kitchen setup. The Living Room was almost to Betty’s liking. She shoved her couch – the one that had taken six men to offload – into place by herself.
The kitchen had it’s own issues – apparently she was pretty used to making herself not look quite so big, so the photographer and lighting manager got a quick lesson in how to set up an appropriate forced perspective.
The Reel-to-reel was calibrated – Betty’s voice could easily fill a room when she desired. While the interview wouldn’t rely on her own shorthand notes or memory, Cousins still made sure that they had permission to edit responses.
Brenold came out with the mentioned suit and hat for the cover. They were abominations. What was she supposed to be with this hat, Head Elf of the land of misfit fruitcakes? But he didn’t get any satisfaction for his complaining. At least the other outfits – big as they were, so little time left for custom work, and nothing off the shelf was going to fit her – held possibilities.
The truck came – A short Semi-trailer truck which, thankfully, had none of the door problems the limo presented. She took her leave, stooping over as she easily stepped up into its trailer.
And then a leisurely two more days were left for final setup.
~
The fact that three ovens were delivered the next day felt… odd, but it could have been a question of aesthetics. For now, with little else to do, the lighting tech just made sure they had sufficient power after the kitchen set’s dummies were torn out.
The last contractor took off, wondering just what had made everyone so quiet.
Chapter 3
“First, Ms. Crocker, it is a pleasure to interview you – even though it’s been since I’ve worked for Good Housekeeping on the regular.”
“Yeah, you’ve moved on to book publishing as I understand it – it does date me, a little bit. I’d doubt you’ve given up on the short stories, though. I wanted someone with experience pulling lose threads.”
“I hope you aren’t expecting anything too sensational to go to press from this. That isn’t Housekeeping’s strong suit.”
“Well, I’ve been in correspondence with the American Housewife how many years, now? I know that’s not a smooth road to drive down.”
The tape technician gave a thumbs up. The interview could begin.
“You do get a lot of correspondence – and publish responses – in print and on the airwaves – you’re actually involved with that?”
“Oh, it’s been a while since I’ve had my voice on the radio. We’ve – The Crocker Corporation – has got a correspondence department that has my signature on a rubber stamp. Part of the points catalog, officially. A lot of questions are repeats, but sometimes I’m hit up with something novel.”
“You’ve been criticized as of late for propping up the position of housewife while America tries empower women in society.”
“America needs housewives. Needs to appreciate domestic work that allows the economy as a whole to exist. Are people ready to let their spawn run around, unsupervised, in the street, watched by only their pets? Are they even ready to warm their own factory-produced meal themselves? They aren’t even at the point that disease wouldn’t run rampant if they didn’t clean their Blocks and wash their hands. And even if that’s improving – that’s not the America that writes to me. MY business is making sure those housewives and bachelors benefit from industry in their food the same way the benefit in their modern appliances.”
Gardner flipped over her notepad and started making a few notes for herself, “Sounds rather dystopian. So… you’d assert that boxed cake and cleaning technique is feminist.”
“When the woman that is expected to have produced a desert after every dinner, and may be beat if it is not there, yes.”
Betty took a moment to look around the room. When she met the tape technicians’ eyes, he merely signed back “OK”, “40 minutes” – until there’s be a break to change to another tape on the Reel-to-Reel.
Williamette, though, looked offended.
“Did you choose your hotel room for the convenient hotplate, grub?”
He might have spoken up, but some impulse, perhaps self-preservation, stopped him. He walked away.
~
They talked, focusing on what Betty did in a day – getting her early schedule on the record – and what a day running Crocker Corp might look like.
“One would never place you at 70, given your energy.”
“Why would they, I’m at 100%!”
“Ah – 70 years, I mean.”
Betty paused. Smiled. “I wouldn’t rush to put myself as that age either. You’re only as young as you feel.”
~
“Now, before the bakery-” Ella Gardner paused to try and adjust her perch on an armchair that seemed more like a high loveseat, looking over scrawled notes, “You met your late husband on the road, didn’t you?”
“The Colonel, yes.”
“Did you take your name from him?” Trying to get anything about her childhood had proved quite impossible, so it was worth trying this route, “I mean, Sassacre is a stage name, isn’t it?”
“If I took my name from him I’d be a Sassacre, wouldn’t I?” Betty smiled, taunting, “The man spent so much of his life trying to keep a air of… mystery to himself, a humorist for the masses, if you will. Giving that away doesn’t befit his memory.”
“But – was he was an actual Colonel?”
“He talked about Cuba on occasion. Beyond that, it’d be telling.”
“So, not a young man by the time you met him – But you were a performer. An Acrobat.”
“These days the word ‘contortionist’ is a bit better known, would have gone with that if it hadn’t had so many people scratching their heads. Or worse, completely uninterested.”
“Older readers will remember Vaudeville acts, certainly – in movie theaters if not in person. But you were never in a vaudeville troupe, per se. It was always filling in for Sassacre, right?”
“pfff- filling in. With his jokes, he was giving me recuperation breaks. People expected two hours of content, and even if there weren’t kids in the audience – and it was pretty much guaranteed there were – there some tricks the public just won’t stand to be shown.”
“So the two of you filled an hour each?”
“Oh, usually more like 10, 15 minutes back and forth. Not too much different than commercial breaks today. We might have somebody local to share the stage with, but I had a few dances and a few really bent bits to choose from, depending on the crowd’s mood. If we tried to do two shows a night, there was definitely someone local. Besides the music, but that usually isn’t on stage, is it.”
“And this was the seed money for the Crocker Mansion? And Business?”
“The mansion, no, that was already in his family. Timber money. All his earnings went to taxes and upkeep – Crocker Bakery was my coin from the start.”
“A majority of acrobats just disappear when they get injured. It takes a lot of gumption to plan ahead of that.”
“Oh, it wasn’t injury that ended it. I was just tired of dealing with the mob. First I didn’t really have the choice, then finally the money was good enough for a while. And Sassacre was the nicest jimmy I ever met, even if he struggled with jokes, he did just want to lighten people’s spirits.”
“Do you make a lot of the book he wrote? Off the record.”
“I make more off the book I wrote. And no, not the cookbooks. It’s under a pename, but it’s no tell-all.”
“I mean I read some of Sassacre’s works as prep and… it’s pretty brash at points.”
“I have made no contribution to human’s Melaspectrum and don’t plan on doing so.”
“Sorry- human- what?”
Betty was silent for a few long moments. “If my employees do their jobs, do what their told, the skin doesn’t matter. Content of their character and all. There’s nothing different underneath it.”
“That leads me to ask about Crocker Corp’s stance on the Civil Rights movements of the past few years, compared to your own…”
~
The photoshoot occurred over the second morning. The Crocker Corp truck stayed around, acting as Betty’s dressing room, rocking a bit under her weight as she changed clothes in back, Driver wandering, sitting around – just sort of staring into the air, really. Without much else to do, Gardner took a seat beside him.
“If I may ask, young man – how long have you worked for Mrs. Crocker?”
The driver got a perplexed look on his face in response, eventually responding, “Oh, you mean… like, last summer. Like, I was hired to drive delivery truck, but I guess she liked my hair?” He had managed to wear a hat today hat today, looking a bit more like a uniform – which he took off – and his hair did make him look the slightest bit like pictures she had seen of Colonel Sassacre.
“Hmm.” Some quick notes. “Does Betty have children? There were mentions of them a few years ago.”
“Two. Like, John just got married I guess. And she hate’s Jades guts. Like, really hates. But there both adopted, ’cause…”
“Because?”
He looked lost.
“Hello?”
“Sorry yeah, I drift a bit. Not on the road, mind you. I’m not gonna get fired like the last guy.”
“What happened to the last guy?”
“It wasn’t his fault, but like, all the house staff was just gone one day.”
“According to who?”
“Oh, John, her kid. He wanted to know if I knew anything about it. But, like, nobody does.”
“So it could have happened before.”
The driver shrugged.
“Does she get out of the house often?”
“Driving – no. Most of her business is visitors and telephone, while I’ve been there. Oh, she goes on walks. Sometimes in the gardens – it’s like, my backup work, that actually is most of my work, helping the Gardner – we come across her doing some messed up shit like all night. I don’t know how she manages it without stabbing herself.”
“What? Gardening?”
He shook his head, “Like, breaking her spine in half.”
“So she can still do the contortion, at her age.”
“Still? Sure, if that’s what it’s called.”
“But… what is this about stabbing? is it a certain move she does?”
He looked confused again. She made a few quick notes.
The latch on the back of the truck loudly unlocked, And out came Betty – With more makeup as Ella had seen before on anyone’s face, including clowns, beneath “that elf hat” and above a red Crocker Corp blazer.
She didn’t even know where Brenold was, but she could still feel his disappointment.
~
The cover part of the shoot was easy, a series of head-shots with hands resting at the waist, even if the whole camera rig had to have been raised a foot off the ground to get the perspective looking right.
The “Living Room” section employed some interesting trickery – Ella sat in on some of the images, feeling Brenold’s makeup work on her own face, a normal sized chair substituted for the loveseat-sized one she had occupied the previous day, lighting and chair placed so the two women looked almost the same size.
Brenold kept haunting the set, even though his every attempt to ‘help’ Betty was waived away. What has she done to her hair, he kept mumbling. Nobody else noticed any real difference from the previous day – a little more curl to it, perhaps.
The Kitchen part of the shoot – was an experience. It had been agreed that an old radio script would be adapted to a second article – and all the writing had already been done for that – but instead of bringing a finished piece, Betty was quite insistent that the whole recipe be tested right then, on modern equipment. As in, photograph the process. Almost, but not quite, like she was a little envious of Julia Child on television.
The portions were – large. But she was a large woman herself, and a baker no less. She obviously meant to fill the three oven’s six racks, making the previous day’s wiring sessions worth the effort. They only had to wait on the Gofer driving around to pick up the previously unanticipated list of ingredients.
Then there was the preparation of the dish. Extra lighting was thrown up as she showed her process on set. The Tape technician rattled off what he saw happening, along with Betty’s calls with the recipe variants she was trying, hoping to associate things correctly with the pictures that would exist. The photographer ran around as well, trying to get suitable angles of the process.
And Betty. Even if she had seen Julia Child’s television show, she was drawing from other influences for her movements. Her bakery days? Perhaps. Her old stage act? One might hope. Just how she got her shoes off and on with nobody noticing was anybody’s guess, but cradling the mixing bowl with one arm, cracking open egg after egg with the other while folding over the batter continuously with a foot-held whisk draped over the shoulder?
Sometimes she twisted weirdly to grab the next ingredient – her bottom half wouldn’t move, but her dress would scrunch around her waist and her aprons’ ties would be lost in the folds, and – you would just suddenly be staring at her back to the counter, if you didn’t see it happen. Or you might notice much more leg she was suddenly showing.
At one point, waiting for the ovens, she was just hanging, suspended off the counter, toes gripping the edge either side of her, loudly cracking her knuckles while the timers ticked away.
Yeah, most of these photos weren’t candidates for going in the magazine.
Chapter 4
“Now,” on Ella’s third morning up during the wee hours, the novelty of driving in under the stars was gone. For some reason, her knee was acting up – and she hadn’t been running around during the photo-shoot like the others. Ella was just… jet-lagged, and could only hope to try and make this day worth it, “Are you ready for the interrogation?”
As quiet as the warehouse had tended to be previous days, it was quieter now. And, thankfully, more dimly lit.
Betty lounged on her own sofa again, almost giddy. Her outfit was a weird kind of casual – harem pants, short skirt, sandals. Even if the outline was surprisingly like her more formal outfit, she appeared to be intentionally giving off hippy vibes this morning.
The photographer and film tech had laid out early prints of their choices of yesterdays shoots – ones appropriate for the magazine, a few that weren’t for good measure – with notes that they didn’t think anything required a re-shoot, and would be in late to pack up equipment.
Brenold hadn’t come in. Not needed, major headache.
Williamette had called in with some, frankly, tiring questions. He figured a factory visit was more worthy of his time.
The tape technician faithfully sat by his Reel-to-Reel – though it looked like he could just as easily get back to a good snooze as well.
~
“Forgive me, but I’ve been instructed to ask these – I’ll try and make them relevant.”
“I can appreciate unwanted responsibilities. Hit me.”
Ella pondered her notes for another moment, “After Colonel Sassacre’s passing, did you ever consider remarrying? To keep the burden of being a single mother and running the Crocker Corp businesses all by yourself managable?”
Betty sighed, “Even when he was alive, The Colonel wasn’t in charge of Crocker Bakery – or our tour. I was in charge of the bankroll, a majority of the time he was writing or socializing. Which is a habit as expensive as you can make it.”
“So money management isn’t a turn-on in a man.”
“I’d rather you give me the pile of gold.”
“But, for all your public-facing work – you aren’t a socialite yourself. One of Jung’s ‘Intorverts’?”
“Sorry, but – what?”
“You prefer your own company.”
“Well, everybody prefers their own company, if the reactions to riots of the past few years are any indication,” She sighed, intentionally trying to skip ahead to the next thought, rather than continue the current one, “But, the thrill of a performance can only take you so far. I need progress, eventually.”
“So, with company work, none of your underlings ever caught your eye either.”
“What, to fuck? No. I’ll get my adrenaline some other way, a cleaner way.”
Elle shot a look at the tape technician.
He had already raised a headphone to his ear… was listening… and hit a key. “Bleeped”.
She sighed in relief.
Betty laughed and shook her head. “Can’t talk about what you do so often. Never understood that.”
“Is that why you adopted? Your two children-“
Betty raised her voice to interrupt, “The adoption was The Colonel’s decision – and I went along with it, stuck with it after he passed – hoping I could raise some good kids. Apparently that’s not quite what my ambitions should have been. But they are grown now, and that’s their lives. We’re talking about mine.”
“Then – how did you meet The Colonel? How long were you a part of his show?”
“Oh- The Colonel recruited me out of a circus right before the show started,” Betty’s look had gotten a little less certain, “I couldn’t really tell you the date, offhand. And I can’t claim he started a tour across the states because of me -“
“The circus.”
“No name you would of heard of. It didn’t last long after I… announced I was leaving.”
“Were you-” Ella gulped. “I think I can fit in one of my assigned questions. You are definitely in the range off… a plus-sized woman. Stout, they would have said a few years back. Now, please don’t take this the wrong way -“
“Was I the fat lady at the circus?” Betty’s grin was cruel.
“I… It’s marketing, right? Bombastic claims. Just. The way you move, it doesn’t feel like something you’ve had to adapt to in your old age.” She kept quiet on the fact that the 70 years old number wasn’t sounding like enough at this point, given how long Sassacre’s show had kept running.
Betty’s laugh was long, loud, cruel. She rose up from her couch, leaning in close to her interviewer – almost breathing in her microphone. “I was once billed as a giant that wandered out of the Wisconsin woods. And you know that human kindness and goodness people talk about? For however long I was on this planet til I met Sassacre. I saw none of it. Just freaks that should have never survived hatching, kept alive for some coin.”
Betty stood back up, walked away. It was her turn for a break.
~
When the tapes were swapped, Betty Crocker eventually resumed her position besides her own microphone, hung over the back of the couch.
“How much more have you got?”
“I have – an open-ended one. You’ve had to reinvent yourself a few times over your life – at least 4 times, if my count is right. How do you get ideas, pick directions? How do you keep, well, your recipes up to date for new generations?”
“Generations, huh? Let me ask you a question, then. How long have you had a refrigerator? A Radio?”
“Well- I suppose my parents had the radio while I grew up. I’ve had a refrigerator since I’ve had my own house. My parents still had an unused icebox in the basement.”
“Yeah, the 50s had a real boom in refrigerators. And you know what else it had? Mayonnaise. In places it had no reason to be. Gelatin. Ketchup. Grabs at a buck that were thankfully abandoned. Another way to put it – if you ignore trendy, ‘now’ is always a moving target, but it moves slowly. I made my fortune on bleaching and fine-grounding flour, and putting it in a box with a few other ingredients that your mother would have had to get for herself.”
She took a moment to collect her thoughts.
“It’s ultimately risky, making one thing easy, then telling the person that you’re trying to sell to what they should be doing with it. It’s better to make one thing easy, and then wait for their questions. A lot of people will go off and do the other humdrum stuff then – what they saw their parents do. Or, at least, react to what they saw their parents do. Which is why… America… develops so slowly. Under a million different visions of what the future should be, of what life should be. Which is really a boring answer…
“But getting ideas is about looking for that thing that changes the cycle. Helping that along.” Betty pondered for another moment, then decided that was enough.
“So – recent events. Men walking on the moon. More due to walk it – well, right after we publish. Does that give Crocker Corp any ideas?”
“Well, they’ve declined to give us any moon dust to see if it’s good seasoning, since they’ve confirmed it isn’t cheese,” They both laughed a bit, “It depends on what goal walking on the moon actually means to you. If it’s just to make this country feel proud about itself – it won’t last. If there’s money in it – not taken in the form of taxes – there might as well be roller coasters on the moon. I haven’t seen anybody arguing the latter is true yet. I think army rations are the better bet, as long as so much money is spent in Vietnam.”
“Do you support that war?”
“If it makes me coin, and doesn’t kill too many potential customers, sure,” the smile she gave was a goading one, “Reduce the surplus population, that’s the quote, right?”
~
“A few miscellaneous things – favorite recipe to share?”
“Well, the roll cake in a few pages, of course.”
“Favorite desert?”
“Nothing you would have heard of. The ingredients are… exotic.”
“Overrated desert?”
“Soufflés. Or maybe it’s just. You know. The size compared to the feeling of eating air.”
“One of your boxed products that could be improved?”
“None of them. Though the result of the Angel Food Cake mix is improved by leaning how to do it without the mix, in my opinion. And I’ve never quite understood the appeal of Carrot Cake, so I have to trust my staff on that one.”
~
The lighting technician finally arrived, and started tearing down equipment – a noisy process, but he was flying back on the red-eye, and Hearst would not be absorbing the cost if the scrappers claimed them. They took the time to discuss the post-interview schedule – draft reviews, test prints – and that all the original film would be sent back once appropriate duplicates had been made.
The last was an odd condition, but hers to specify. Elle had to wonder if the Film Technician had already made a personal set of prints of her… more unusual kitchen habits.
~
“This is only for the room until November – but I’ll be stepping down from actively heading the corporation soon. I’ll still keep an eye on things, but a lot of training has been put into the new blood,” Betty crossed her arms – looking a little hesitant about the statement.
Ella nodded. It would be one of the few suspicions she had before the interview that actually proved correct, building while looking over the woman’s past, “It might be a little bold of me – but it seems the world is a little bit farther along because of Crocker Corp. But as active as you are – any future projects to tackle?”
“I’ve wanted to try my hand at breeding for a while. Oh, humans have done it for years, mans best friend is how it is because of man. Wheat and Rye just used to be grass. But now, with a greater understanding of genetics – well, I hope I’ll be putting my effort behind things this world has never seen.”
“Maybe that favorite desert will be available in a box someday?”
Betty chucked – good naturedly, for once, “Perhaps.”
~
It wasn’t too much longer until Ella Gardner’s alarm went off – her traveling bedside clock – Her return flight was just a few minutes away.
She offered a hand, “Until we meet again.”
After slight hesitation, Betty gave her a hug. It might have been intended as a light hug – but Ella found herself momentarily pinned and suspended against a chest that… was too soft in ways her mind wouldn’t elaborate on. Then it was done, “Safe travels.”
Pulling away in her rental car – She saw Betty duck out of a warehouse door for one final wave – and she returned the wave, of course.
She noted, as she pulled off, because of Betty Crocker’s height, or some inflection in the rear-view mirror, some pipes on along the warehouse’s wall almost made it like like she had horns. Which, honestly, didn’t look that off.
She scrawled a quick note.
~
The article, put to page, was never what Gardner hoped it would be, what it could be. Banal. Just what the editors of Housekeeping liked. Oh, there were a few demands – there was a hubub about exactly the shade of magenta that was to be in the cover lettering, but she only heard about that after it was over.
Ella Gardner and Betty Crocker never met after the piece was published. It can’t really be said the short story that definitely didn’t arise from her notes – Kids raising themselves on a spaceship to Mars – ever found much of a place on people’s shelves.
____
I. Just. How did you manage to get the right universe without going back? No, the aren’t here, they won’t be here for…. a long time I’ll leave it at that. I mean, you got some Guardians who aren’t doing, much, You’ve got Condy…
Yeah. You can go look in on her.
Illustrations by Cleonova and the magazine cover by CosmicSynthetics… the latter has been hiding in A Boondollar Store full of Cheap Tricks for over a year.
Some questions contributed by Jesseth, CS, and Nyallipop.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/15905931?view_full_work=true
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