“Salt? I don’t want the rugelach to be salty! It should be sweet.”
“Jilly, it takes all kinds of flavors to make rugelach. Salt can be too salty and sugar too sweet. But blend them together and you get …”
“Magic!”
“You’re a fast learner, Jilly.”
Chapter 9
Jack texted Chad and Jillian:
Loud rock music blared from Jack’s record player as Jillian and Chad entered the kitchen. It was the third track from the Zombie Brunch album:
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
My favorite word, can you guess?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
It’s how us zombies all say, Yeeeeesssss!
Chad clutched a bottle of antacid tablets. Jillian brought a CD of The Four Seasons and her mother’s wooden spoon. Hearing the music and seeing all the contraptions Jack had laid out, Jillian wondered why she had bothered. The countertop was littered with several shiny objects she had never seen before.
“What’s this?” she shouted over the throbbing bass.
“That’s an Xtreme Adjustable Level Measuring Spoon,” Jack said, turning down the volume. “Its built-in lever moves up and down so you can trim off excess ingredients. It’s part of the Phineas Farnsworth III Kitchen Genius Collection. See, there are his initials, PF, on the handle. I read that he has a huge private laboratory where he works on his gadgets. Pretty cool, huh?”
Jillian nodded politely.
I’ll keep my old measuring cups and spoons, thank you very much, she thought. And who’s this Phineas Farnsworth guy?
“And this is an EZ One-Click Butterizer, another of his creations. You load a stick of butter in this box, press a button, and voilà, a perfect slice every time without the mess! What else would you use?”
Hmmm, that’s a hard one. Let me see … maybe a knife?
Jack looked at the worn wooden spoon in Jillian’s hand. It was the kind of evidence he had hoped for.
I present to you Exhibit A—an old wooden spoon. Jillian Mermelstein is not the rugelach-maker. Not by a long shot.
“Nobody’s bigger in baking than Phineas Farnsworth III. Someday I’m going to be just as famous as him,” Jack said. “And I’m going to win the Bakerstown Bonanza—the world’s biggest baking contest! It’s held every year in Ardmore, but you probably already know that.”
Jillian shrugged.
“Can we hurry?” Chad begged. “I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”
The three went to work measuring ingredients and following the steps to make the batter. Over Jack’s objections, Jillian insisted that she stir it with the wooden spoon.
“This would go a lot faster if we used my Farnsworth two-hundred-watt chrome-plated mixer with self-cleaning, heat-treated beaters!”
Patience, Jillian thought. Cooking is a prayer whispered …
Jillian looked up to see a tall boy holding a putter. He wore peach-and-maroon-checkered slacks and a black polo shirt. Jack had forgotten that Bruce would be in charge tonight since their parents were attending a hospital fundraiser.
“Yuck, yuck, and triple yuck,” Bruce said, looking into the bowl. “I wouldn’t eat that if you paid me a million dollars. How are you planning on ruining this? With lime juice, asparagus, and pinto beans?”
Bruce turned to Jillian and Chad.
“I have to live with the Feebler Elf, so let me give you some advice. Stop hanging out with him before he infects you with his ridiculous dream of becoming a great pastry chef. Listen up! It … is … a … complete … waste … of … time!”
Before anyone could respond, Bruce disappeared into his room to practice putting.
Trying to think of a clever comeback on the fly, Chad shouted at him from the kitchen, “Oh, yeah, Mr. Checkered-Pants-Golfing-Stupid-Guy, we’ll see about that. Jack is the best!”
“Good one,” Jack said, shaking his head.
I’m so glad I’m an only child, Jillian thought.
“Sorry about that,” Jack said. “My brother is, uh, kind of a jerk.”
“Come on. It’s getting late,” Jillian said. “Let’s put in the roasted crickets.”
Jack pulled the bag from his backpack. The label read: Crunchy Critters, Wingless Whole Roasted Crickets, Plain. Through the clear cellophane, the brownish insects were tangled in a pile of eyes, legs, thoraxes, and abdomens.
“They also come in flavors like barbecue, honey mustard, cinnamon and spice, and ranch jalapeño,” Jack said, taking one out to inspect it.
Chad chomped two antacid tablets. He dashed from the kitchen, dove onto the living room sofa, and hugged one of the cushions.
Jillian dumped a cupful of crickets into the bowl and stirred until they were coated with the oatmeal batter. Together, she and Jack placed spoonfuls of dough onto cookie sheets, making sure each dollop contained at least three bugs. Once the cookies had baked for fifteen minutes, they placed them on cooling racks. Other than the appearance of a stray leg, they resembled normal oatmeal raisin cookies.
Jillian admitted to herself that the baking session had gone better than expected despite Jack’s brother, Zombie Brunch, and the countless times the Bakerstown Bonanza and Phineas Farnsworth III’s name were mentioned.
“Ready for a taste test?” Jack asked.
“Two billion people around the world eat bugs,” Jillian said, taking a nibble and chewing slowly. “Now make that two billion and one.”
“Two billion and two,” Jack said, shoving an entire cookie into his mouth. “Not bad. The crickets have a solid crunch that complements the soft oatmeal. What’s your take?”
Knowing this was no ordinary cookie, Jack wanted to shout like he was one year old again, “Yum! More! Now!”
I should have tried crickets a long time ago, he thought.
Jillian didn’t want Jack to know she was a foodie like him. It would lead to too many questions.
“It was okay,” she said.
“Just okay?”
What Jillian wanted to say: Well, when cooked, the crickets have a soy texture that I like, but the cinnamon overpowers the taste. I’d have scaled back a tad on the cinnamon or used cayenne pepper in its place. Also, a higher grade of oats would have enhanced the experience, along with a bit less butter.
This is what she did say: “Yeah, they were a little chewy.”
“I see,” Jack replied.
After Jillian and Chad left, Jack arranged the cricket-filled cookies on a large plate, covered them with foil, and set them on the middle shelf of the refrigerator. On a sticky note, he drew a skull and crossbones above the words, WARNING!!! DO NOT EAT!!! CLASS PROJECT FOR TOMORROW!!! Just in case Mom and Dad were hungry when they came home.
“Good night, my little six-legged friends,” Jack said, closing the door. “See you soon. Chirp. Chirp.”
Chapter 10
Jack woke up early so he could prepare for the presentation. He decided to surprise Jillian and Chad by dressing like Farnsworth, who was never seen in public without a three-piece suit, a silk tie, and expensive polished shoes. As he finished gluing on a fake goatee and putting on a red beret, he heard a rustling noise in the kitchen, like a burglar rummaging through a dresser drawer.
In the refrigerator’s dim light, Jack’s eyes caught a flash of checkered periwinkle and pink. He moved closer to see Bruce’s angular profile bent inside the open refrigerator.
Bologna? For breakfast? You are hopeless.
Then he heard grotesque gobbling noises—the kind reserved for flesh-eating monster movies. Sandy-colored crumbs speckled with flecks of brown rained down around Bruce’s sneakers. Jack tried to shout but could only manage a garbled, “Bruce … stop …”
In horror, his brother turned around. The foil had been flung aside. Half the cookies were gone.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Bruce said, breathlessly. “I thought I’d take just one bite to see how awful they were. But they were good. Unbelievably good.
Out-of-this-world goooood.”
Jack swelled with pride. This was the first time Bruce had ever eaten anything he had made.
I finally conquered the fussiest eater in all of Ardmore!
“It must have been something that girl did because there’s no way you could have made oatmeal raisin cookies this delicious. Not … a … chance.”
“Oh,” Jack sighed, bowing his head. “But Bruce, those aren’t raisins …”
“Sorry, no more time to talk, Duncan Heinie. I’ve got to get ready for school. You better clean up this mess before Mom comes down.”
Bruce went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Smiling in the mirror, he saw what appeared to be spiny dark splinters stuck between his teeth. Looking closer, he screamed.
Arriving ten minutes late, Jack rushed into homeroom where Chad and Jillian were waiting impatiently.
“What happened, man?” Chad asked. “Our presentation is first. Ms. Riedel said we’d have to give it without you if you didn’t show.”
“Half the cookies are gone,” Jack said, pulling back the ripped foil to reveal stray cricket parts.
Jillian gazed at the plate. “What happened?”
“Bruce ate them.”
“Bruce? Your brother?” Chad asked. “Mr. Checkered-Pants-Golfing-Stupid-Guy ate our cookies?”
“At first he couldn’t resist them, but when he found crickets inside, he ran around the house shouting something about turning into a bug.”
“Whoa, that would definitely hurt his golf game,” Chad said, laughing. “In today’s sports news, Bruce Fineman lost the Masters when his caddie accidently squished him on the fifth green.”
Jillian pictured Bruce as a flying insect clad in checkered pants and driving a golf cart. From deep within, she felt an unfamiliar sensation—a feeling buried inside for so long that she had forgotten it was even there, that it would ever be possible to experience again.
It was laughter … and there was no stopping it.
“Okay, class,” Ms. Riedel said. “Jack, Jillian, and Chad will now present their topic, ‘Incredible Edible Insects.’”
Jillian read a few of the slides from their PowerPoint presentation:
• There are over 1,900 types of edible bugs.
• Each one of you eats two pounds of bugs a year without knowing it.
• In some countries, ninety-six tons of caterpillars are eaten annually.
• Cockroaches have fifteen percent more protein in them than beef.
• Restaurants around the globe serve grasshoppers, ants, mealworms, and cricket-based dishes, including salads, soups, tacos, and even …
Jillian couldn’t say the word. Her face turned red as she tried to mumble “cookies.” All she saw was Bruce as a cricket sprouting wings and an antenna.
Shocked classmates stared as the girl from the back row laughed so hard tears streamed down her face. Jack joined her. Soon Chad was howling at a joke only the three of them understood.
“Great, how am I going to hit this golf ball with my compound eye!” Chad giggled. “I see thousands of them!”
Ms. Riedel stood back and watched. She knew about Jillian’s background, the pastry shop, her mother’s death, and her move to Ardmore. Putting her with Jack and Chad, two of Sieberling’s biggest goofballs, hadn’t been a random choice of her phone app. She had grouped them together hoping for this very response.
The three managed to stumble through to the end. Jack offered the cookies to the class. A few brave souls tried them, but most refused to join the world’s two-billion-and-two-bug-eater-club.
Jillian handed the plate to Chad.
“Embrace your fears,” she said.
Chad held a cookie inches from his open mouth. For him, this was much harder than snowboarding down a fifty-four degree Alaskan incline, something he dreamed about all the time. Finally, he bit into it with a satisfying crunch.
Bruce was right.
“This is fantastic!” Chad said, removing an antenna wedged between his lower incisors.
During the next presentation, Jack asked Chad, “Was the cricket cookie as good as the rugelach?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “They were both incredible. I only told you the rugelach was ‘okay’ because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Sorry, bro. I have to be straight with you. Jillian can really bake. Uh, not as good as you of course, I mean …”
“Thanks, Chad. Thanks a lot.”
Jillian arrived home to find Grandma Rita at the kitchen table. Still thinking about Jack, Chad, Bruce, and the half-eaten plate of cricket cookies, she couldn’t wait to talk about her unexpectedly hilarious day.
“Hey, Jilly, why don’t you come sit with me? I have something to tell you.”
From her somber expression, Jillian knew it was not good news.
“Your father is a good man, a proud man. He could never tell you this himself.”
“Is he sick? Did he get hurt?” Jillian was starting to panic. What was Grandma Rita trying to say?
“No, he’s fine, but he lost his proofreading job a while back and they cut his hours at the auto parts warehouse.”
The news stunned Jillian. She thought her father was paying off their debts so they could move into their own place.
“I know you two want to find a house for yourselves and get on with your lives. It just looks like it may take a while longer. No matter what, we’re all together as a family. That’s what’s important. And you’ll always have a place to stay with me, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course it is. We love it here, Grandma.”
“You’re sweet, Jilly, just like your mother. How about we do something nice for your father?”
“Like what?”
“Make a cake. It might cheer him up a bit.”
“Let’s make oatmeal raisin cookies instead,” Jillian said, letting out a burst of laughter.
“What am I missing?”
“Get the mixing bowl. I’ve got a good story to tell you.”
Chapter 11
As Jack settled in to watch television that night, he reviewed the events of the day. In his baking scrapbook he wrote:
Ms. Riedel gave us an A on our presentation! She said the cookie was scrumptious!
Bruce got in trouble for eating half of our project and leaving the kitchen a mess. No golf for a week!
Mom and Dad punished me for bringing roasted crickets into the house without permission. No cooking for two weeks!
Bruce ate about twenty bugs. Two weeks off from cooking? Totally worth it!
Chad ate three cricket cookies. He may turn into a foodie yet.
Jillian laughed … a lot.
EVERYONE, even Bruce, loved the cookies. Was it something Jillian did?
Jack paused and reread his last line.
Jillian brought a wooden spoon. When asked about the oatmeal cookie, her only comment was that it was “a little chewy.”
“Definitely not foodie talk,” Jack muttered to himself. No matter what Chad or my brother may think, it still doesn’t seem possible that Jillian made the rugelach, he thought. But she was fun to hang out with.
Jack turned to a blank page and pasted in an advertisement for Farnsworth’s latest cooking spray: It’s quick, it’s slick, and your scones won’t stick! the headline read. Jack made a note to run out and buy a can.
Remote in hand, he scanned the television for cooking shows. He bounced between In Crust We Trust, a pie-making challenge hosted by the French pastry chef Francois Furveau; Beasts of Yeast, a competition for bread bakers from around the world; and Shoot for the Spoon, a show in which cooks had sixty minutes to make soup out of random ingredients pulled from a shopping cart while blindfolded. Jack stopped surfing when he saw a familiar face on the local evening news.
A reporter was interviewing Phineas Farnsworth III, who sat behind a large oak desk. He wore his signature pinstriped suit and a scowl that said, You, my friend, are not worth the ground on which I walk. Framed covers of his annual coo
kbook hung on the wall behind him.
This must be inside the Farnsworth mansion, Jack thought.
“So, Mr. Farnsworth, Channel 25 News has learned you have big plans for the Bakerstown Bonanza this year. Tell us about it.”
Farnsworth cleared his throat.
“As you know, the Farnsworth Baking Supply Company has been sponsoring the Bonanza for seventy-four years. We’ve kept the competition the same from its inception. The prizes may have grown, but it’s still a simple test of who can make the most delicious dessert—one worthy of carrying the Farnsworth name. It’s about real people with real stories. There are no weird challenges or overrated celebrity chefs barking out commands: ‘You have three minutes … now incorporate bacon into your raspberry strudel!’ What a bunch of nonsense.”
The reporter nodded, hesitant to interrupt. “So what changes will happen this year?”
“The rules will stay the same. They worked for my grandfather, they worked for my father—may they both rest in peace—and they work for me.”
“Then what are the ‘big plans’ for this year?” the reporter asked, bracing for another gust of wind from Farnsworth.
“To celebrate our seventy-fifth year, we’ll be featuring the next generation of great chefs selected from the young people of Ardmore, Ohio.”
Jack couldn’t breathe.
“Starting immediately, I’ll be accepting applications from bakers between the ages of eleven and thirteen. Two students from each eligible school in Ardmore will be chosen.”
“And what will the first-place winners take home?”
Farnsworth looked directly into the camera, as if addressing Jack face-to-face.
“Oh, there’s prize money, of course. Plus, the winning school will receive a nice surprise. But those things don’t compare to the real reward.”
“And that is … ?”
“Fame, you dimwit! Immortality! The chance to change your life forever. Halley’s Comet comes around about every seventy-five years. For six youngsters out there, this will be their moment—their personal Halley’s Comet.”
“I see. How can they enter?”
“By going to our website. They can read the complete rules and download the application.”
$150,000 Rugelach Page 4