Holiday Baking Championship's Jesse Palmer always seems to sport a form-fitting turtleneck — or a cozy V-neck with an alluring wisp of chest hair peeking out. He keeps those seasonally appropriate wool pants snug in all the right places. His grin dazzles when he cracks an awful dad joke. He strides authoritatively from one baker's station to the next, exuding powerful but approachable masculinity. His penetrating blue eyes disarm helpless bakers when he asks them about their plans for each challenge.
When I see Jesse Palmer in that TV kitchen, there is on my mind one thing and one thing only: I must put my paws on those profiteroles.
My god. The list of consensual sexual acts I would ethically convince that man to perform on, exchange with, or do to me is simply too long. I know he's straight. I know he's married. But if I were a contestant on Holiday Baking Championship? Rest assured, by the end of my time on the show, we would absolutely be soaking the sponges, if you know what I mean. Laminating the dough. Macerating the berries.
His cakes are too hot to frost. Well — almost.
I would be a dangerous baker to have on set. My cream could boil over and sizzle as my eyes linger on his broad shoulders. My caramel could burn and smoke, but all I would smell is a sweet waft of cologne. My biscotti could very well turn aflame as I wait for him to breathe into my ear the seven sexiest words in the English language:
"Only 15 minutes left in this challenge."
Perhaps he'd wear a Santa hat or footie pajamas as he sensually explains this week's preheat challenge. I'd linger behind the other bakers, coyly choosing the only remaining gift-wrapped package dictating my ingredients. Our hands would brush one against the other as I slink by him on my way to the oven, pulling my eclairs out just as they finish. He'd watch as I roll my dough with swift, even strokes. I'd knowingly catch his gaze as I beat my buttercream; he'd wait to visit my station until my meringue had come to stiff peaks.
I bet his sugar work is immaculate. His flavors strong but balanced. His piping? Pristine.
If I were ever allowed within licking distance, his body simply would not be safe. I want to ugly up that man's sweater. Sugar his plums. Braid his babka. Crinkle his cookies. Brittle his peanuts. Puff his pastry.
Jesse, if you're reading this, I just have one question for you: What that yule log do?
