I've just finished reading The Ungarnished Truth by Ellie Matthews. Her account of winning the Pillsbury Bake-Off is both witty and wise. She plays straight (wo)man to herself, which makes the book delightfully droll. Matthews not only cooks up a good chicken dish, she cooks up a delightful stew of words as well, giving us a behind-the-scenes look at what took her all the way to Oprah.

. . . And while it may well be that Carl and I don't gravitate to five-star hotels and restaurants, it would hardly be said that we live the lackluster lives of ascetics with nothing to break the gloom of gruel and self-denial, day after gray monotonous day. In our own way we enjoy a steady stream of luxuries. Hand-rolled, single-estate tea, for example, is not out of the question. While I can barely distinguish shiraz from chardonnay, I can go into raptures about hairy crab oolong or gunpowder pinhead extra-choice, or topaz punerh, which is aged in caves and tastes vaguely and magnificently of dirt on the second or third pouring.

Sadly, no loose-leaf tea was to be found in the Renaissance Orlando Resort, just a bag of Lipton’s dragged through a cup of almost-hot water. Except for the palm fronds clacking against themselves in the breeze outside my window, my room could have been Anywhere, USA. I felt very much alone—bravely so—as if on a mission.