$150,000 Rugelach

by Allison Marks

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That every time my Grandma Rita bakes, I learn something new.”

  “Like what not to do?”

  “Exactly.”

  At breakfast the next morning, Jillian made a confession to Grandma Rita.

  “I don’t know how I am going to work with Jack. He’s a miniature version of Phineas Farnsworth III—with a lot more hair. And you know how I feel about him.”

  “Give it time,” Grandma Rita said. “You don’t know much about Jack. Come to think of it, we don’t know much about Farnsworth, either.”

  “I don’t want to know anything about him!”

  “Maybe you should. It might help your chances of winning. Why don’t you google him and see what you find?”

  Jillian typed in Phineas Farnsworth III and hit Enter. Pages and pages of references appeared on the screen. They scrolled through entries detailing the history of the Farnsworth Baking Supply Company, its line of ingredients and equipment, interviews, and photos. She wrote down key points from what she found:

  • At the age of twenty-seven, Farnsworth III was appointed CEO of the family business in 1979 after his father passed away in a yachting accident.

  • The first baking gadget he created—the SureFire SiftMaster—became an overnight hit. Millions were sold worldwide.

  • The huge demand for Farnsworth products forced the company to triple the size of its factory in Ardmore. Construction was completed in 1980, with much of the factory’s expansions occurring on Market and Maple streets.

  • He has been judging the Bakerstown Bonanza for forty years.

  “This is pointless,” Jillian sighed. “Every website repeats the same information. Jack has already told me some of this.”

  “Wait, look here,” Grandma Rita said, pointing at the screen. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Buried on the last page was an article from The Kensington Weekly, the student newspaper of Kensington College in central Ohio. A photo of a much younger Phineas Farnsworth III was below a headline that read, Meet the Heir to the Farnsworth Baking Throne.

  Jillian printed out the interview.

  Q: I understand that many famous people visited the Farnsworth family estate, such as presidents and the Queen of England. What is your fondest memory of growing up there?

  A: My fondest memory? It was a plate of home-baked chocolate brownies. I recall devouring every one. I believe I was ten at the time. To be honest, I have never tasted anything as good since.

  Q: Did your mother and father do a lot of baking around the house?

  A: Actually, no. When you’re running an international business, there’s little time for such domestic pursuits. The brownies were made by my nanny—Miss Alexandra. She called me her “Little Cupcake.” She’d tell me the funniest stories. And we’d go to the park every Thursday afternoon. There were picnics in the summer and ice skating on a pond in our backyard. Just the two of us. She was always there for me, even when my parents weren’t.

  Q: What happened to her? Are you still in touch?

  A: I’m afraid not. It was so sudden. So unexpected. So very sad …

  Q: Could you explain?

  A: Well … I don’t think that’s any of your business, now, is it? Another personal question like that and this interview is officially over. I thought you were supposed to ask me about trends in food manufacturing!

  Jillian folded the paper and placed it in the back of her mother’s recipe book.

  My little cupcake? I bet no one calls him that now! she thought.

  Chapter 17

  Jack couldn’t get Jillian’s story out of his head. Now he understood why she had sat so quietly all these months in the back of the classroom. He knew why she had entered the Bakerstown Bonanza even though she couldn’t stand the sight of Phineas Farnsworth III. Also, for the first time in his life, he had met someone who knew as much about food as himself. He finally had someone to discuss the best way to cream butter or separate eggs.

  But one thought pushed all others aside: Jillian’s mother is gone, forever.

  Jack knocked on the door of his mother’s study, where she often reviewed medical records after a long day at Ardmore General Hospital.

  “Mom, can we talk?”

  “Certainly. How’s my local celebrity?”

  “Fine. Jillian and I made lemon bars. The execution was a little bit of a disaster, but they turned out fine. I saved you some.”

  “Lemon is my favorite. You didn’t put anything unusual in them, I hope.”

  “Maybe a bit too much powdered sugar on top, but no crickets.” Jack hesitated. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How did I end up in this family? Bruce lives on bologna sandwiches. You and Dad have no interest in baking. Did you bring home the wrong baby from the hospital? Am I adopted?”

  “So many questions! First off, you’re a Fineman through and through. As I’ve said before, we brought home the right baby. And for the hundredth time, you were not adopted.”

  “Then why am I such a foodie?”

  “You are just like my grandmother—Bubbe Leah. She loved everything about food. She spent all her time in the small bakery she and Zayde Stan owned at the corner of Market and Maple streets here in town. It broke her heart when it was torn down—brick by brick—and replaced with another business.” Mrs. Fineman spat out the words “another business” as if she had tasted spoiled milk. She lightly pounded on her desk each time she said “brick.”

  “Your grandparents owned a bakery? Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “It’s not an easy story to tell.”

  “Why?”

  “Because baking was all they knew. All they ever did. Zayde Stan handled the financial end of the business while Bubbe Leah made challah for Friday night dinners, hamantaschen for Purim, macaroons for Passover, and sufganiyot for Hanukkah. Oh, how she loved to see her customers enjoying what she made! People came from all over to buy her cherry-covered cheesecakes. Her specialty, though, was rugelach.”

  “Rugelach? What flavor?”

  “Chocolate.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why would I kid about that? I can still taste her chocolate rugelach to this day. Even though the memory is a little bitter.”

  “How come?” Jack asked. He couldn’t imagine how anything about baking could be bitter at all.

  “Because baking took Bubbe Leah away from the family. Every morning, year after year after year, she rose before dawn to walk to the shop. Long before anyone in the city ate their breakfast, she hauled sacks of flour, poured batter out of mixers, kneaded dough, bent in front of hot ovens, and moved heavy cooling trays. We rarely saw her, rarely had a family breakfast. She worked every day, except on the Sabbath.”

  Jack thought about his mornings. He usually hit the Snooze button on his alarm clock four or five times before his father pounded on his bedroom door.

  “It’s a good thing my bubbe was a hefty woman. A strong woman,” Mrs. Fineman said. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have lasted a week. Grab the photo book, will you?”

  Jack took the album off its shelf and handed it to his mother. She flipped through until she pulled out a photograph of a large woman wearing an apron and hairnet. A thin man in a suit and holding a hat stood beside her. The sign above the door of the business read: Goldfarb Bakery. Est. 1944. The inscription on the back read, Leah and Stanley Goldfarb, 1980. Jack peered closely at Bubbe Leah’s face. Her expression showed neither happiness nor sorrow. To Jack, it looked as if his great-grandmother had given up.

  “This was taken the last day at the bakery—only a few hours before it was torn down. In your hands is a woman who toiled her entire life to make food for others only to have her business taken away in the name of the public good.”

  Jack noticed Bubbe Leah’s scarred hands, marred by too many nicks from a sharp bread knife.

  “No matter how hard she worked, I do
n’t remember her ever frowning—until the bakery was gone,” Mrs. Fineman said, pausing several seconds to compose herself. “Zayde Stan believed that when the building was demolished, a big part of her died that day.”

  Mrs. Fineman wiped away a tear.

  “At her funeral a few years later, my mother told me, ‘I don’t want my daughter spending her days covered in flour at four in the morning.’ Remember, Jack, some dreams come with a price. It’s not all about bright lights and baking contests.”

  “Can I keep the photo, Mom?”

  “Yes, but take good care of it.”

  In his room, Jack placed the photograph in the back of his scrapbook. He closed it, finally certain that he was, indeed, in the right family.

  Chapter 18

  The Bonanza was drawing closer. Jack and Jillian practiced making pastries from Jillian’s recipe book, along with desserts of Jack’s own creation.

  Chad joined them to offer words of encouragement. Despite his efforts, Jillian and Jack argued at least three times per baking session. And they still hadn’t decided on what to bake for the contest.

  After some thought, Jack rejected Jillian’s suggestion to make her mother’s chocolate rugelach recipe.

  “Yes, it’s incredible, but not impressive enough. We need something epic. Something extraordinary. That’s what Farnsworth likes for his cookbook covers.”

  Jack insisted on a four-tiered cake, each layer with a different flavor—maple, banana, coconut, and vanilla.

  “I’ve studied seventy-four years of winning recipes,” he said. “These are the top four flavors bakers have used. If we put them together in a single cake—boom!—we can’t lose.”

  Jillian crossed her arms.

  “I see your point, but it sounds like a train wreck to me. It’s too much. How about we make almond cookies?”

  Jillian read aloud the notes in the margin of her mother’s Chewy Raspberry Almond Cookie recipe: “Almonds—a symbol of early blooming, of better days. Always start the week with an almond recipe.” She paused. “The contest is on a Sunday—the start of the week. Almond cookies would be perfect.”

  “Not to Farnsworth,” Jack said. “According to my scrapbook, a recipe with almond flavor has only won once, way back in 1952.”

  “At least they won’t be a train wreck.”

  “Who says?”

  Chad couldn’t take their bickering any longer.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Mom coordinates team-building activities where she works. I think you guys need some serious team-building.”

  “Explain,” Jack said, clutching a bag of almonds.

  “Instead of being in the office all the time, she and her coworkers go out and do a fun activity together, like hiking on nature trails or playing volleyball at the community center.”

  “And the point is?” Jillian asked, wrestling the almonds away from Jack.

  “It gives everyone a chance to get to know each other outside of work. It could help you win by building commas and radii.”

  “I think you mean camaraderie,” Jack said, grabbing the bag back.

  “No, I’m pretty sure Mom says it builds commas and radii, though I have no idea what hiking or volleyball has to do with punctuation and math.”

  Jack shook his head, knowing that Chad wasn’t joking.

  Chad met Jack and Jillian at the Ardmore Indoor Amusement Park. The sprawling complex had thirty bowling lanes, a rock climbing wall, ball pits, a trampoline, basketball courts, a Ferris wheel, an arcade, an eighteen-hole miniature golf course, a candy shop, and a restored merry-go-round.

  The three started by slipping into harnesses for the rock climbing wall. Jack knew Chad was much better at snowboarding down a real mountain than climbing up a fake one indoors. Jack and Jillian scrambled to the top at the same time. On the way down, Jack’s sneaker snagged on one of the holds, allowing Jillian to zip by and touch bottom before he could untangle himself.

  “Let’s do that again!” she said, grinning.

  “No, let’s go bowling,” Jack demanded.

  Jack easily won, racking up spares and strikes. As he hurled the ten-pound bowling ball down the lane, the sound of Zombie Brunch songs pounded in his head. Jillian and Chad struggled to keep their balls out of the gutter. The final scores: Jack, 128, Chad, 88, and Jillian, 73.

  “Up for another game, anyone?” Jack asked as he slurped a lime slushy.

  “No,” Jillian said. “Let’s try out the trampoline.”

  “Trampoline, huh? You’re on!”

  Chad sensed tension rising between his friends. Why was everything a competition between them?

  “Let’s do something as a team,” he suggested as Jack and Jillian raced away.

  On the trampoline, Jillian bounded higher than Jack by a foot. In basketball, Jack made more free throws. Playing Whack-A-Marmot, Jillian outdid Jack by three points. Chad watched helplessly as an entire community of mechanical rodents was depopulated without Jack or Jillian speaking a word to each other.

  “How about I beat you at miniature golf?” Jillian asked.

  “How about we go home?” Chad pleaded.

  Jack lined up his golf ball at the first hole—a straight shot into an elephant’s trunk, out its tail, and into the metal cup in the left corner of the felt-topped green.

  As he was about to putt, Jack heard his name called. He turned around and stared directly into a shimmering sea of orange-and-teal fabric. It was Bruce.

  “So this is how Chef Boyar-Geek gets ready to be humiliated in front of the entire town,” Bruce said. “Step aside. You’re in my domain now—the House of Bruce. A place where your baking skills mean zip. Watch me dazzle you with the finer points of golf.”

  The finer points of golf? Jack thought. It’s an elephant’s trunk for crying out loud!

  Jillian approached Bruce with her putter in one hand and a pink dimpled ball in the other.

  “So you think you can beat us?” she asked.

  No!!! Jack’s brain screamed. Don’t challenge him! Bruce is amazing at golf! It’s all he does!

  “Of course I can.” Bruce laughed, hitching up his pants.

  “Wanna bet?”

  Bet? What are you talking about? Jack thought.

  “Sure! If I beat all three of you—which I could do blindfolded—Jack has to tell the whole world during the Bone-an-za, ‘My dear brother, Bruce, is my hero, my one-and-only inspiration. And he rocks at golf.’”

  Jack tried to interrupt, but Jillian couldn’t be stopped.

  “Okay. And if we win you have to go on camera and announce that Jack makes the best … oatmeal … cookies … in … the … universe.”

  “Chirp, chirp,” Chad said.

  Bruce swooned at the thought of brushing his teeth after gorging on the cookies.

  “And you have to ride the merry-go-round on an animal of our choice,” Chad said.

  Caught up in Chad’s enthusiasm, Jack added, “Holding one of those big swirly lollipops from the candy shop!”

  “Fair enough,” Bruce sneered. “Eighteen holes—lowest score wins.” He knew about Jack’s embarrassing attempts at golf. He suspected Chad was no expert, either. As for Jillian, he felt confident no girl could ever beat him.

  Bruce went first. He eyed his target before pulling back the putter with precision. He tapped his yellow ball directly into the pachyderm’s trunk. Seconds later it popped out its tail, bounced twice, and went directly into the bottom of the hole.

  “Say it, Jack! ‘Bruce is my heeerrrooo!’” his brother said, dancing the jig he had hoped to perform weeks ago.

  “Not so fast,” Jack said. “Watch this!”

  He swung wildly, sending his putter airborne. It bounded off the elephant’s left ear and landed near a Whack-A-Marmot console. Chad’s putt was no better, but at least he held on to the club. His ball hit the plastic divider between the animal’s nostrils and rolled back to its original spot at his feet.

  Bruce mocked them by clapping slowly.


  “Bravo, boys! Are you sure you don’t want to quit now before this gets ugly?” he said.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” Jillian said.

  She walked coolly to the plastic pad and set her ball down. She gripped the putter, winked at Bruce, and struck the ball with the same confidence she frosted a molasses cookie or iced a German chocolate cupcake. The pink sphere went smoothly into the trunk, out the tail, and in the cup. She calmly retrieved it and strode to the next hole.

  Jack let out a cheer. Chad threw up his arms, wishing he had brought his air horn and a bag of glitter. Seventeen holes later, Bruce wished he had never met Jillian Mermelstein, the girl who knew how to swing a mean putter.

  Jack, Jillian, and Chad watched Bruce sitting astride an ostrich on the merry-go-round holding a red-green-and-yellow sucker about the size of a dinner plate.

  “You were awesome, Jillian,” Jack said. “Where did you learn …”

  “Grandma Rita is great at golf, too.”

  Chad beamed. “You two have definitely built a whole bunch of commas and radii today.”

  “Yes, we’ll make a good team,” Jack said.

  “We’ll see,” Jillian said. “First, there’s something else you need to hear.”

  Chapter 19

  Back in Grandma Rita’s kitchen, Jack’s brain buzzed with the image of Jillian sinking a perfect putt on the eighteenth hole. She had banked it off the right-side rail, sending the ball through a loop the loop, into a tunnel, and down a twisting ramp. It straddled the lip of the cup before hitting the bottom with a satisfying plunk. Bruce’s ball had circled the hole three times before resting an inch away.

  Jack had watched Jillian closely on every hole. Earlier she had smashed marmots like a professional exterminator and scaled the rock wall with the nimbleness of a mountain goat. There was no doubt in Jack’s mind: Jillian could handle the pressure of competing against the contestants from Old Harbor and Feldspar without breaking a sweat.

  Jillian emerged from her bedroom holding her mother’s recipe book. It was open to the first page.