“Fine. Whether it’s my business or not, we’re going to need to practice. I’m not allowed to have people over to bake at my place after the whole cricket thing. Can I come to your house tonight? We need to get started right away.”
“Sure, whatever.”
As Jack got up to leave, a fifth-grader asked Jillian to autograph her granola bar wrapper. Her head throbbed.
Looking around the cafeteria, Jillian saw that every eye was focused on her. Soon, the entire town would be following her every move.
After lunch, Principal Dobkins called Jack and Jillian into his office. Jillian wondered if he had somehow found out she lied on her application. Jack thought he might be presenting him with his own personal key to the teachers’ lounge on the second floor.
“First, I want to congratulate you both,” Principal Dobkins said. “I understand the organizers received scores of applications from Sieberling.”
“Thank you,” Jack and Jillian said together.
“That being said, you each have an enormous responsibility. You will be representing not only the entire school but also all of Ardmore. There will be media from across the country attending and recording the event. It’s of the utmost importance that you conduct yourselves in an appropriate manner.”
What is he getting at? Jillian thought.
“Give me your personal assurance that you won’t be putting anything odd—anything with six legs—in whatever you bake. Your science project has been the talk of the school for weeks.”
Jack nodded. “No, we promise. No cricket cookies or katydid croissants. In fact, no winning recipe has ever included an insect or spider, so ours won’t, either.”
Principal Dobkins looked relieved.
“Well, good then. We’re all counting on you to do your best. The Culinary Education Center would mean a great deal to Sieberling School. And it would be nice for our school to beat Old Harbor Academy and Feldspar Math and Science Institute at something. It’s getting old finishing in third place in the Academic Challenge, Field Day, and the Annual Inventors’ Fair. But just do your best. No pressure.”
Walking back to class, Jillian gave Jack a troubled glance.
“I guess this isn’t just about us,” she said.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got this.”
Jillian wasn’t so sure. She pulled the nacho-cheese-stained black marker from her pocket and looked at its ruined tip.
Well, that settles it. I’ll be charging three dollars to autograph a corn chip, she thought. Definitely three dollars.
Chapter 16
Jack arrived at Grandma Rita’s house carrying his Farnsworth Deluxe 5000 Food Processor, a tote bag brimming with gadgets, and his baking scrapbook. He had convinced himself that if Grandma Rita didn’t like Phineas Farnsworth III, he was sure he wasn’t going to like her.
Standing in the small kitchen, Jack noticed the outdated oven and a gas range with only two working burners. Aloe and jade plants crowded the windowsill. A photograph of a young woman holding a baby hung over the spice rack. Dented frying pans dangled on hooks above the sink. A wooden spoon, rolling pin, and sifter lay on the white laminate countertop.
This is where the chocolate rugelach was made? Jack thought. Impossible!
“This is my Grandma Rita,” Jillian said.
“Pleased to meet you, Jack.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Jack wanted to ask her about Farnsworth right away. How could someone who had made such wonderful rugelach possibly dislike Ardmore’s greatest contribution to the pastry world? It didn’t make sense. But as a guest in her house, he didn’t want to cause trouble.
“I liked the video you made,” he continued.
“I enjoyed yours as well. I happen to be a big Zombie Brunch fan. I saw them in concert back in 1977. My ears are still ringing from the encore, ‘Gluttony Buffet.’”
Jack stood slack-jawed. No one in his school knew anything about Zombie Brunch. He could find little about them on the Internet—one album, a brief tour, and a quiet breakup. The band members went their separate ways, fading into musical obscurity. Now here stood Jillian’s bubbe—a pink streak splashed across her graying hair—talking about the only music that mattered in his life.
“I bought their album Enjoy the Feast at an oddity shop,” he said. “It’s what I play when I bake.”
“What’s your favorite track?” Grandma Rita asked. “Mine is the last one on the first side—‘Hunger Road.’”
“Does it go ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah’?”
“That’s the one!”
They all go yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, Jillian thought.
The two talked for several minutes about the band. It amazed Jillian how Grandma Rita could find common bonds with anybody and make strangers feel like old friends.
“Enough about Zombie Brunch. I’ll be in the living room so you can get baking,” Grandma Rita said.
“Please stay,” Jack suggested. “You’ll be able to give us some pointers.”
Jillian frowned. She didn’t want Jack to discover Grandma Rita’s lack of skills in the kitchen.
“Oh, you both need to learn to work together,” Grandma Rita said. “I should probably leave.”
“You wouldn’t be in the way,” Jack said. “Is it okay with you, Jillian?”
“I guess so. We’ll do the baking and you can watch. I thought we’d start with something easy.”
Opening her mother’s recipe book, Jillian turned to the page with a heading that read, Oooh La La Lemon Bars.
“They’re basic but delicious,” she said. “White powdered sugar on top, flaky crust, and a mix of sweet and tart.”
Jack flipped through his scrapbook and found the page marked Lemon.
“This scrapbook is top secret,” he said. “If it ever fell into the hands of the other contestants, we’d be doomed. You have to promise me you won’t mention it to anyone.”
Jillian rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious. You have to promise.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“Good. I’ve analyzed all seventy-four Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbooks and watched every video of the previous competitions. Lemon is a mistake.”
“Why?” Grandma Rita asked, peeking over Jack’s shoulder.
“Only one winning baker has made a lemon dessert. I’ve watched Farnsworth’s face when tasting anything with lemon. It’s not pretty.”
Jillian scanned Jack’s notes. Farnsworth is always sour when it comes to lemon. Avoid at all costs! When using fruit fillings, strawberry or peach are better choices.
Jack pointed to a chart. “It’s a pie chart, get it? Peach pastries have won seven percent of the time. Lemon ranks at the bottom. Blackberry and strawberry are tied at eleven percent.”
Jillian remained unimpressed. “I don’t care what your pie chart says. Everyone loves these lemon bars.”
“Farnsworth won’t,” Jack said with urgency. “Besides, lemon bars are too small. We’ll have to impress him with something big—that’s what usually wins. A little cookie isn’t going to do it.”
“Why don’t you make the lemon bars anyway?” Grandma Rita said. “Right now you’re just practicing together. You don’t have to make them for the contest.”
“Good point,” Jack said. “I have some huge ideas for what we’ll actually bake. It’s all right here in my scrapbook.”
Jillian looked at her mother’s recipe book. “I have some ideas, too,” she said tersely. And I’m not going to let you boss me around, Jack Fineman, she thought. We need to win this … and you can’t do it without me.
“I suggest you get started,” Grandma Rita urged. “You can decide on the contest recipe later.”
“Good idea,” Jack said. “We’ll pretend we’re at the Bonanza. Ready? Let’s go.”
Jack and Jillian soon forgot all about whether Farnsworth preferred gooseberries or blackberries as they went to work. Jack had imagined them maneuvering around the small kitchen in a
well-choreographed ballet of blending, whisking, pouring, and baking. Instead, they bumped into each other scrambling for a bag of flour. Somehow, a yellow waterfall of lemon juice cascaded off the counter. They grabbed for a bottle of vanilla extract at the same time, sending it crashing to the floor. Their first baking session as Sieberling School’s team had quickly turned into a discordant clash of Zombie Brunch versus Vivaldi, both blasting simultaneously at full volume.
They looked at each other puzzled, unsure of how baking the cricket cookies had come so easily but making the lemon bars was becoming such a challenge.
“Maybe you’re nervous,” Grandma Rita said. “Try to relax and work together.”
“I knew that lemon bars were a mistake,” Jack said, pointing to his scrapbook.
Jillian ignored him. When each ingredient was added to the mixing bowl, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Adding a special ingredient,” Jillian said.
“O … kay,” Jack said. “And what is that?”
“Oh, never mind.”
Once baked, Jillian pulled the pan out of the oven and began cutting the sheet into squares.
“Make them perfectly even,” Jack said. “Presentation matters.”
If that’s what it takes to win—fine! Jillian thought.
Jack poured powdered sugar into the sifter and handed it to Grandma Rita.
“Why don’t you finish them?” he said.
Bad idea! Jillian thought. Using a sifter can be tricky. All it takes is a few light taps on the side. Otherwise it’s a mess.
“I’d be honored,” Grandma Rita said. She jiggled the metal sifter so vigorously that the dessert became buried under an avalanche of white.
Jack watched in disbelief. In that instant he realized Jillian did not learn to bake from her grandmother. And he knew their baking session had been a complete failure. He saw his dreams of pastry supremacy rapidly slipping away.
“Look at these! Ruined!” Jack said. “By the way, great job with that vanilla extract. Farnsworth would be very impressed.”
Jillian didn’t back down. “You’re the one who knocked over the lemon juice,” she snapped. “And that Farnsworth food processor you brought over is a noisy piece of junk!”
“No, it’s not. It puts out 720 watts of power, comes with intuitive speed and dicing controls, and is fortified with anti-slip feet.”
“What does that even mean?” Jillian threw her hands up.
“It means it’s really awesome,” Jack said, searching his brain for another comeback. “And what’s with this secret ingredient you’re magically putting into the recipe? All it does is slow us down.”
“You’d never understand.”
“And … and … you said you learned to bake from your grandmother! That’s a lie.”
Jillian froze as the room went silent, save for the drip, drip, drip of lemon juice falling like tears onto the linoleum floor. She covered her face.
“What did I say?” Jack asked.
“I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’m not the great baking instructor here,” Grandma Rita said, brushing sugar off her sleeves. “Tell him the truth, Jillian. He’s your teammate. I’ll leave you two alone.”
It took Jillian all her courage to tell Jack the real reason she had applied to be in the Bakerstown Bonanza. But before she did, she had Jack make a promise.
“What I’m going to tell you is personal. This is between you and me. No one else.”
“Not even Chad?”
“No one, including Farnsworth. I didn’t put any of this in my application, so he doesn’t know about it. I don’t want to talk about any of this during the Bonanza. You swear?”
“Yes, I swear. You can count on me.”
“Okay, here goes,” Jillian said, taking a deep breath. “I learned everything I know about baking from my mother. Our family owned a pastry shop in Seattle. That’s where I lived before we moved to Ardmore. My mom and I baked everything together. But the shop closed and we had to sell all the equipment. We owed the bank so much money that my father and I had to move in with Grandma Rita. That’s why I need to win the Bonanza—to help out my dad.”
Jack nodded. He had many friends whose parents were divorced. He assumed this was the case with Jillian, too.
“Did your mother stay in Seattle? Do you get to visit her?” Jack asked. “That must be tough.”
“No, Jack, they’re not divorced,” Jillian said, casting her eyes down at her sneakers. “My mother died. I’ll never see her again. I don’t talk about it because it’s … well, it’s just too hard right now. And it’s private. That’s why I made up the story about Grandma Rita to get in the contest.”
Jack listened in silence as Jillian talked further about her mother, Joan of Hearts, and the wooden spoon with a chip like a missing tooth. He had never faced such hardships. His life revolved around baking, goofing off with Chad, staying out of Bruce’s way, and plotting his future.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must have been sad.”
“Still am. Not always anymore, but a lot of the time.”
Jack tried to comprehend what to him was incomprehensible.
“This was my mother’s recipe book,” Jillian said, flipping through it so Jack could see the messages framing each page. She stopped where it read Chocolate Rugelach.
“So you made the rugelach without any help?” Jack asked.
“No, I didn’t do it alone. Grandma Rita told me jokes while I baked. And my mother was with me—right here.” Jillian put her hand over her heart. “But I thought you hated my rugelach. I saw that awful face you made when you tasted it.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to tell the truth.
“I made that face because I was jealous. Your rugelach was the best thing I had ever eaten. Ever.”
Jack could barely believe his own words. For the first time in his life, he had admitted that he was only second best. At least this time.
Shocked by Jack’s announcement, Jillian said, “Thanks. That would have meant a lot to my mother, knowing that you enjoyed it so much. That’s why she baked.”
“So, be honest. Did you like my butterscotch basil brownies?”
“They were good. No, very good,” Jillian said slowly. “But something was missing, like you forgot an ingredient.”
“Left out an ingredient? No way. Not possible.”
“Like I said, they were very good.”
But not as good as your rugelach.
After Jack left, Jillian sat alone in the kitchen and sampled one of the lemon bars.
Surprisingly decent, she thought. There’s love in there for sure—I can taste it. Of course, my fight with Jack came after we baked. Then they wouldn’t have tasted like much at all. But they’re not nearly tart enough for me. We’ll have to do better if we’re going to win. Much better.
Jillian’s thoughts were interrupted by the rumble of a Chevy Cavalier pulling into the driveway and the realization that, in a few moments, she would have to confront another one of her lies.
Dad! What am I going to tell him about the Bonanza? He doesn’t even know I entered! Argh! What a day!
When Mr. Mermelstein entered the house, Jillian shoved a copy of that day’s Ardmore Star in the kitchen junk drawer. She hoped her father hadn’t already seen the front-page headline: Farnsworth III Selects Six Ardmore Students for Bonanza.
He needs to hear it first from me, she thought.
“Hi, Jills,” he said. “How was your day? It was the same old, same old for me. Nothing new on the road crew.”
He hasn’t read it!
“Well, I have something important …”
“Hey, do I smell lemon bars?” he asked, taking off his winter coat. He scanned the cluttered countertop. “Looks like you’ve been busy in the kitchen.”
“Yes, we have. Please try one,” she said. “We made them just before you came home.”
“We? Oh, don’t tell me Gr
andma Rita helped. That would explain the powdered sugar. Kind of like what Mother Nature did to me,” he said, shaking snow off his coat before hanging it up.
Jillian faked a laugh. She had something big to tell, and it was no easier than revealing to Jack the truth about her mother.
“Grandma did the sifting, but there was someone else here baking. Jack Fineman.”
“He’s the boy you baked cricket cookies with. That’s wonderful! Nice to see you’re finally making some friends here.”
“Uh, Dad …”
He took a bite of a lemon bar.
“Fabulous,” he said. “Looks like you and Jack—and Grandma Rita—make a pretty good team.”
“Okay, here goes,” she said—for the second time that day. “Actually, we are a team. Jack is my partner in the Bakerstown Bonanza. We’re going to represent Sieberling School. Isn’t that great?”
Jillian could tell from her father’s expression that, maybe, he didn’t agree.
“Jills, why didn’t you tell me about this?” he said.
“You’re so busy all the time. And I didn’t think you would let me enter.”
“You’re right about that. I read about the Bonanza in the paper a couple of weeks ago. It’s a very big deal. There will be news coverage from all the major networks. And thousands of phones pointed at you. I know how these contests work. They ask questions about your personal business, peek into your living room windows, dig into your family history, and make a spectacle of your life for everyone to see. This is a hard time for us. I’m not comfortable sharing our past—and our money troubles—with the rest of the world.”
“But Dad …”
“And, by the way, I don’t remember signing any permission form for you to enter.”
“I told you it was for a school field trip. I’m sorry. I didn’t think there was a chance they’d pick me. Really, I don’t even want to be in it.”
“Then why did you apply?” It was Jack’s exact question from that morning.
“The winners split $150,000. I thought we could use the money.”
“Oh, Jillian,” her father said, hugging her. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to help. And I was careful about what I wrote on the application. I didn’t mention Mom, or the bakery, or you, or what I’d do with the money. I promise. It didn’t feel right.”
$150,000 Rugelach Page 7