$150,000 Rugelach

by Allison Marks

  Jack shrieked so loudly his parents came running.

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. Fineman asked.

  Unable to speak, Jack pointed to the television.

  “I can enter the Bakerstown Bonanza this year!” Jack gasped. “I … can … enter … the Bonanza!”

  “Settle down, Jack,” Mr. Fineman said, sitting next to him on the sofa. “Your mother and I have been talking about this baking thing.”

  Jack knew what was coming. He had been hearing the same lecture since third grade when he begged for a set of expensive Farnsworth Teflon frying pans for Hanukkah, the ones with “three-ply bonded construction and contoured stainless steel handles.”

  “It’s not a thing, Dad. This means everything to me,” Jack said. “You don’t understand!”

  “And that’s the problem—this obsession of yours,” Mrs. Fineman said. “We wish you’d concentrate on bringing up your grades instead. I would have never made it into medical school with your marks.”

  This wasn’t the first time Jack’s parents had questioned his lifelong plan to dominate the pastry world.

  “There’s nothing wrong with baking as a hobby,” Mr. Fineman explained, glancing at one of the detailed pages of Jack’s scrapbook. “But you have to be realistic. More practical.”

  “I’ll work harder. Promise!” Jack said. “I’ll do anything to be in the Bonanza.”

  “We know you’ll do anything,” Mrs. Fineman said. “And that’s the problem. I’d rather we, I mean you, didn’t have anything to do with the Farnsworth family. Nothing good will come of it.”

  “But this is my chance—my Halley’s Comet!”

  “We know this is your dream, Jack,” Mrs. Fineman said. “And we want to support you, just like we do with Bruce and his golfing …”

  “And his pants?” Jack shot back.

  “I assure you that Bruce is responsible for buying his own sportswear … and for his fashion decisions,” Mr. Fineman said.

  “You just don’t think I’m good enough,” Jack argued.

  “Oh, you’re good, Jack,” Mrs. Fineman said. “As good as the best baker I’ve ever known, Leah Goldfarb.”

  “Is she on the Fab Food Network?”

  “No,” she continued. “But that’s a story for another time. What we’re trying to say is that life is more complicated than making cookies and winning baking prizes. We’re sorry. Sometimes parents have to make tough decisions. This is one of those times.”

  “But …”

  “There is also the issue of your last report card. We’ll discuss the contest later,” Mr. Fineman said.

  Which means never, Jack thought.

  News of the kids-only version of the annual baking contest spread quickly. Grandma Rita saw the article splashed across the front page of The Ardmore Star. The headline read: Local Kids Get Taste of Fame.

  “Hey, Jills, did you know they’re featuring students in this year’s Bakerstown Bonanza?”

  “No, I didn’t. Who is Phineas Farnsworth III, anyway? Jack had a lot of his kitchen gadgets. He wouldn’t stop talking about him.”

  “He’s the owner of the Farnsworth Baking Supply Company—the biggest employer in the city. He’s easily the richest person in town, though I’m told he rarely visits here anymore. Spends most of the time at his chalet in Switzerland.”

  Grandma Rita handed the article to Jillian:

  ARDMORE, OH—Business mogul and Ardmore native Phineas Farnsworth III is searching for six local children to be contestants in the 75th edition of the Bakerstown Bonanza. This first-ever version will highlight aspiring young pastry chefs from Ardmore competing to create this year’s top dessert.

  “From our research, we know many young people attend this event,” said Farnsworth through a press release. “This is an opportunity to reach the chefs of tomorrow. It’s also another way for the Farnsworth Baking Supply Company to give back to the city we love.”

  The article continued with a lengthy description of Farnsworth’s international food empire.

  “This guy sure is full of himself,” Jillian said before continuing to read aloud.

  “From the beginning, we’ve always kept the event in Ardmore—a town that represents the heart of America,” Farnsworth said. “It’s a place that literally smells of cinnamon rolls and fresh-baked apple pie. That’s what my company’s contest is all about, families and food.”

  “Give … me … a … break!” Jillian muttered.

  “As usual, the event will take place the same weekend as the Ardmore Heritage Day Festival in May. To be considered, entrants, ages eleven through thirteen, must complete an application form, provide proof of residency, submit a five-minute video displaying a mastery of cooking skills, and write an essay on why they want to compete in the Bonanza.”

  “This sounds like homework to me. No, thanks.” Jillian put down the newspaper at the sound of her father shuffling into the kitchen.

  “Morning, Jills,” Mr. Mermelstein said. “Be sure to save the crossword puzzle so we can do it together when I come home from work.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  He’s usually asleep before we get to the first clue.

  Jillian’s father spoke softly into Grandma Rita’s ear before heading toward the door. A look of worry filled her face. He was about to leave when she said, “Walter, I need to have a word with you.”

  Jillian watched as her father and grandmother spoke in hushed tones from across the room. When their discussion ended, they approached Jillian together.

  “Sometimes I need to be reminded that keeping secrets from my daughter isn’t the right thing to do,” Mr. Mermelstein said to Jillian. “After all, you’re eleven years old. You deserve to know what’s going on, right?”

  Jillian nodded. “Is this about money?” she asked.

  Mr. Mermelstein glared at Grandma Rita.

  “So maybe we’ve talked about these things already … a little,” Grandma Rita said, shrugging.

  “It’s okay, Dad. I want to know. I need to know. Please tell me.”

  “We’ve all been through a lot. And I’ve never been good with difficult news, so I’ll get right to it. They let me go from my night job. It wasn’t anything I did. The owner said he just didn’t have enough work for me. Unfortunately, life can be a bit like Scrabble. You have to deal with the letters you get. Right now, the letters aren’t so great. Does that make sense?”

  Jillian thought about the mixed-up mess of letters she had recently pulled from the bag. She knew what her dad meant, but Scrabble was just a board game. This was real life. She was determined not to let him see how much the news bothered her.

  “Yes, I see,” she said. “You’ve got a rack full of vowels—all E’s, I’s, O’s, A’s, and U’s—each worth one point. It’s hard to make a high score with that. But you can always start with a fresh set of letters.”

  Mr. Mermelstein hugged Jillian. “Thank you for understanding. So smart, like your mother.”

  “Is there any way I can help?”

  “Just keep working hard in school. We’re going to be okay. Don’t you worry.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I found a part-time job filling potholes for the city. It’s good work. Hard work, but good. And if I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late.”

  He said goodbye and walked out the door. Jillian heard the sound of his car backing out of the driveway and heading toward downtown.

  When he was out of sight, Jillian went back to reading the article.

  A boy and girl from Sieberling School, Old Harbor Academy, and Feldspar Math and Science Institute will be selected to compete in two-chef teams. The winning school will receive a deluxe, state-of-the-art Culinary Education Center underwritten by the Farnsworth Family Trust, featuring sixteen stainless steel kitchen units along with a 75-year supply of ingredients and baking tools.

  The winning recipe will be highlighted on the cover of the anniversary edition of the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbo
ok, which will include favorite desserts from past contests.

  Big whoop, Jillian thought.

  Finally, the top team will split a prize of $150,000.

  Jillian dropped the paper.

  “What’s up, Jillian?” Grandma Rita asked. “I thought we were going grocery shopping.”

  “The groceries can wait!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to apply for the Bakerstown Bonanza—now!” Jillian called as she hurried to her room and pulled out her laptop.

  Chapter 12

  Jack downloaded the ten-page application form from the website. The questionnaire made it clear a parent or guardian must fill it out. In light of his parents’ “get practical” lecture, Jack didn’t bother asking. He feared they’d write something like:

  Dear Mr. Farnsworth,

  Here is our son’s application. We filled it out because he won’t stop annoying us about it. Please crush his dreams NOW so he can pursue something important, like becoming a brain surgeon or a certified public accountant. Thank you. BTW … we love your silicone muffin tins!

  Jack wasn’t going to take any chances. He’d been preparing for this moment all his life. Pretending to be his parents, he answered the questions himself.

  How did your child learn to cook?

  Jack taught himself. He has a natural gift. One of the first times he baked for his class (plum-filled cupcakes with cream cheese icing—his own creation), his teacher sent a note home calling him “a prodigy.” Homeroom mothers and fathers bug him for his recipes all the time.

  Has your child taken any cooking classes?

  No. Why would he? He should be the one giving the lessons!

  Who is your child’s biggest influence?

  Phineas Farnsworth III. He even has a life-size cutout of Farnsworth from a sugar display at our neighborhood Food Mart. He rescued it from a trash bin behind the store. Now it’s in his room next to his bed.

  What is your child’s biggest strength in the kitchen? Do they have a secret weapon?

  Jack knows the right ingredient to use in the right amount at the right time. He also knows a baker is only as good as his tools. He spends his allowance and birthday money buying every cooking gadget with Phineas Farnsworth’s name on it.

  What is your child’s greatest weakness in the kitchen?

  He makes other bakers look bad, but he can’t help it.

  Does your child have any other interests?

  No. Baking is his life. He played in a soccer league once (our idea), but he kept running off the field to make sure the after-game snack he brought for the team (crème brûlée in Dixie cups) was properly chilled.

  His only other hobby is collecting Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbooks. He has all seventy-four editions, including the first one (a 1944 brochure with just a dozen recipes, signed by runner-up Gladys Zorn). The only one missing from his collection is the rare version of the 1983 book with a typo calling for one tablespoon of kosher “silt” rather than “salt” in champion Deloris Langston’s apple dumpling recipe.

  The final question was the biggie:

  Why does your child want to compete in the Bakerstown Bonanza? (500 words or less)

  Jack didn’t need 500 words to answer this one.

  For as long as we can remember, Jack’s dream has been to win the Bonanza and to become as famous as Phineas Farnsworth III. Being crowned champion is part of his plan to be the best pastry chef who ever lived.

  Jack reread his application and smiled.

  This is perfect! Now all I have to do is make the video, convince Mom or Dad to sign the release form, submit my entry, and wait for the news. A piece of cake!

  Jillian cringed as she scanned the list of questions on the application.

  This is way too personal, she thought. My biggest influence? How did I learn to cook? Can’t we just bake? Why do they need to know so much about us?

  She flipped to the small print on the back page: The Bakerstown Bonanza reserves the right to use all material provided to us by contestants at our own discretion in perpetuity.

  The word “discretion” gave her a bad feeling. The dictionary entry read: Discretion—The freedom to decide what should be done in a particular situation. Then she looked up “in perpetuity.” It meant “forever.”

  That means they can take whatever I write down and use it in any way they please for as long as they want, Jillian thought. It means sharing details about Mom, Dad, and the pastry shop.

  Before filling out another word, Jillian watched videos of past competitions. It turned out the event was about more than baking. Finalists were required to get in front of the microphone and answer questions from Farnsworth about their recipes. Contestants sometimes wept as they talked about the desserts they made. They openly shared family tragedies and discussed what they planned to do if they won the money. Jillian imagined the kids’ version would be more of the same.

  The thought that her family’s private life would be on display for all of Ardmore to see made Jillian squirm. The idea that whatever she said and did would be captured on every phone and posted on social media made her nauseated.

  Then Jillian watched the video of Farnsworth from the local evening news. She listened as he hurled insults at the reporter, never smiling once during the interview.

  Jillian reread the final question on the application: Why does your child want to compete in the Bakerstown Bonanza?

  On a scrap of notebook paper, she wrote her honest reply: My mother died a year ago and left our family in debt. My father can’t find steady work and we seriously need the money. If I win, I’ll give my part of the money to Dad. Also, I miss Mom, but I know that winning this contest won’t bring her back.

  Jillian didn’t want to exploit her mother’s death or her family’s financial problems to be in the Bonanza. But she was determined to win the prize money. She needed to come up with another story to convince Farnsworth to choose her as one of Sieberling School’s two contestants.

  So she lied.

  Chapter 13

  Jillian read her essay to Grandma Rita:

  There is no one I know who cooks quite like Grandma Rita. My father calls what she makes “indescribable.”

  Once, she baked a blueberry pie and people from miles away showed up at her door. Her neighbors in Ardmore still talk about that blueberry pie and the unbelievable smell coming from the house. Mrs. Eberman, the lady who lives next door, tells me she will never forget it as long as she lives. Then she hugs me tight and sobs a little.

  When my bubbe (that’s Yiddish for “grandma”) and I recently made chocolate rugelach in her kitchen, I carefully studied her every move. I watched her empty out the spice rack and the utensil drawer onto the counter. I saw how she blended the ingredients and prepared the oven. Everything she did was a new lesson for me. Often, she would sit back and say, “Jills, show me what you would do.”

  Cooking is only a small part of what makes Grandma Rita special. She’s also a math professor, a plumber, an electrician, a mechanic, and a long-distance runner. In fact, if she never baked another thing in her life, that would be okay because there’s so much more of her to love.

  When we bake, she says it reminds her of the happiest moments of her life as a young mother. And that’s the reason I want to be a contestant in the Bakerstown Bonanza. Because my grandmother says watching me bake helps her to remember and fills her with joy.

  At first Grandma Rita laughed. By the end she was crying.

  “Everything you wrote is technically true,” she said. “Of course, the people who showed up at my door were firefighters. And yes, my cooking lessons usually demonstrate what not to do! How your mother ended up being such an amazing pastry chef is a mystery.”

  “Are you okay with it?” Jillian asked.

  “Jills, of course I am. It’s a beautiful essay. Whoever’s picking the contestants will love the touching story of a Jewish grandmother baking with her granddaughter. But can I ask you a question?
”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why not write about your mother? She was the real baker in the family.”

  “I’ve watched videos of past Bonanzas,” Jillian said. “It’s not something Mom would have ever been involved in.”

  “Yes, I remember: Cooking is not a contest. It is a prayer whispered humbly …”

  “As the sun rises,” Jillian continued. “When no one else is looking. During the Bonanza, the whole world will be looking. I’ve thought a lot about this. If I talk about Mom, about our baking, my memories of her will no longer belong to me … to us. They will belong to everyone … and anyone … for perpetuity. I don’t want that to happen. And it will be just too painful to talk about, especially with everyone watching.”

  “I understand,” Grandma Rita said. “But then the big question is: Do you really want to be in it?”

  No. It goes against everything my mother taught me about baking … and about life.

  “Yes, it’s my chance to help out our family. I have to.”

  “Well, then, let’s shoot your video and get you signed up.”

  That night in her room, Jillian wondered what her mother would have thought about her bending the truth, or applying for the contest in the first place. Looking through the recipe book, she traveled back to her first chocolate rugelach lesson.

  “Get the dough out of the refrigerator,” her mother said. “It’s time to do some rolling! Did you know that rugelach means ‘little twists’ in Yiddish?”

  Her mother instructed Jillian to take each of the four sections of dough and flatten them into circles about nine inches wide.

  “Like a pizza,” Jillian said.

  “Precisely. Now put down a layer of the chocolate filling on each circle.”

  “Like this?” Jillian asked, dripping syrupy sweetness from her spoon onto each piece.

  “You’re doing a super job! Go ahead and cut the circles into eight triangular sections.”

  When Jillian finished the first circle, some of the triangles were fat and others were thin. Two of them didn’t resemble a triangle at all.