The Golden Age of Baking
The Daily Mail claimed it was designed to showcase Starmer’s culinary skills, a move to strengthen UK-US relations by demonstrating his expertise in a simple pasta bake. Whether that was true, we couldn't say.
As we walked onto the industrial estate on the outskirts of London, the scene before us felt surreal. The entire press had gathered, cameras ready to capture a bizarre diplomatic spectacle: Donald Trump and Keir Starmer, side by side, delivering a cooking lesson. The event, reportedly orchestrated by Angela Rayner, had all the hallmarks of a staged political stunt. The Daily Mail claimed it was designed to showcase Starmer’s culinary skills, a move to strengthen UK-US relations by demonstrating his expertise in a simple pasta bake. Whether that was true, we couldn't say.
As we stepped into the brightly lit fake kitchen set, we caught a glimpse of Ed Miliband in the corner, frantically stuffing a Ginsters Cornish pasty into his face while balancing his phone on his shoulder. Between hurried bites, he was mumbling about the need to introduce a CO₂ tax on people burning crumpets in the east of England. He didn’t acknowledge anyone else in the room, too focused on whatever policy pitch he was trying to get across between mouthfuls.
Across from him, JD Vance stood, adjusting his tie, looking at Ed with confusion and disapproval—like he was watching someone who had just jumped over the southern border wall.
Meanwhile, at the center of it all, Keir Starmer was standing at the counter, studying the pasta bake recipe as if preparing for a fiscal budget review. Across from him, Donald Trump stood with the confidence of a man about to create the most monumental dish in history.
“Right,” Keir began, carefully inspecting each ingredient. “We need to be realistic. This pasta bake might not turn out perfect. Things will get worse before they get better.”
Trump scoffed. “Wrong. The golden age of pasta bakes has begun. This is going to be the best pasta bake anyone’s ever seen. Tremendous.”
Keir glanced around the kitchen. “I believe in open-plan kitchens.”
Trump shook his head. “I believe in strong, structured kitchens. You open things up too much, suddenly it’s chaos. You don’t even know who’s in here.”
Keir ignored him, carefully layering the dish. “You do layers of different sauces, different cheeses. You layer it up properly—”
Trump waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, no. Too much layering slows things down. That’s why I’ve got Rocketman starting the DOBE—Department of Baking Efficiency. It’s going to be streamlined, fast, beautiful.”
Keir sighed. “We have to think about global security, Donald.”
Trump frowned. “Global security? It’s a pasta bake.”
Keir was about to respond when Trump suddenly yanked back a block of cheese.
“Keir—don’t let that cheese touch your human hands.”
Keir exhaled sharply. “Right. And why’s that?”
Trump ignored the question, aggressively tossing pasta into the dish.
“Look, Keir. I will make pasta bakes great again.”
Keir looked worried. “We need to ask the World Economic Forum before we hastily rush ahead, Donald.”
Trump blinked. “It’s pasta, Keir.”
Keir turned back to methodically placing each layer, only to notice that Trump had somehow gathered an entire surplus of ingredients on his side of the counter.
“Did you nick them?” Keir asked suspiciously.
Trump, stuffing five slices of American cheese into his mouth, shrugged. “Had them flown in.”
Keir, clearly rattled, pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. Moments later, Rachel Reeves strode into the kitchen, wordlessly taking a wooden spoon from Keir’s hand and adjusting the sauce without saying a word.
Trump narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute—are you with ABC?”
Rachel ignored him, continuing to stir.
Trump pointed a finger. “Is she with China?”
Rachel Reeves, completely unfazed, picked up a chopping board and silently began organizing the ingredients Keir had been struggling with.
Keir cleared his throat. “At the end of the day, I inherited a broken kitchen. 22 billion sausages were unaccounted for on the books. We had to fill that black hole.”
Trump stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
The oven dinged. They pulled out the pasta bake—burnt on the edges, undercooked in the middle.
Keir nodded solemnly. “As I said, things will get worse before they get better.”
Trump grinned. “No, no. This is history. A new era of pasta bakes. People are going to love it.”
Keir watched as Rachel Reeves quietly rearranged the plates, subtly taking over.
As she stirred the sauce, Keir leaned over and muttered, “But… but… I can do a great tandoori salmon.”
Before she could respond, there was a rustling behind them as a group of Starmer’s advisors rushed in, handing him a flute, whispering, “This is more suited.”
Keir sighed, glanced back at the kitchen as he was shuffled out.
Trump leaned in and whispered to Rachel, “He’s the worst pasta bake chef in the history of my memory. Just a total disaster.”
Rachel nodded knowingly. “See, Donald, it's all about being open and connected. I learned this during my real job working in customer relations.”
Trump shook his head. “We need secure kitchens. Because right now… our kitchens are becoming the garbage cans of the world.”
He gestured grandly. “Rachel, the U.S. has the best kitchens, the biggest kitchens. We’ve spent billions and billions—unbelievable amounts—on making our kitchens great again. And let me tell you, the golden age of kitchens is now.”
Rachel proudly smiled. “From today, Donald, we're turbocharging all of our UK kitchens.”
Trump scoffed. “We don’t need turbocharging, Rachel. We need bacon. Lots of bacon. And once I get energy prices down, we’re gonna have so much bacon.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Bacon?”
Trump nodded. “Yes. Before, America had drunken salads. Just nasty, nasty. But with my administration, we will make bacon like nobody’s ever seen before. And let me tell you something—roast potatoes? Disgraceful. We’re going to fix that too.”
Trump then reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled Post-it, and slid it across the counter toward Rachel.
The media suddenly rustled forward, cameras flashing as Rachel hesitantly picked it up. She squinted at the large, capital letters scrawled across it in thick Sharpie ink.
Rachel whispered the words aloud: "NO TAX ON YOUR CHIPS."
To be continued.