A visual feast that saw the panel debating the merits of edible flowers versus clever icing.

Alison brought a maternal warmth that the tent desperately needed. While Noel whispered gothic poetry about dying soufflés, Alison would wrap her arms around a crying baker and say, "Listen, love, it’s just cake." Her physical comedy—accidentally knocking over a trifle, stealing a raw biscuit, attempting to help Paul Hollywood knead dough—was pure gold.

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