$150,000 Rugelach

by Allison Marks

  “Read this out loud,” she said.

  “Cooking is not a contest,” Jack read. “It is a prayer whispered humbly as the sun rises. When no one else is looking. When the rest of the world sleeps.”

  “I want you to memorize this.”

  “Why? The Bakerstown Bonanza is a contest. It always has been.”

  “Please! If you’re my teammate, you have to know this.”

  “I don’t see how it’s going to help, but if I must …”

  Jack wrote down the words in his scrapbook.

  Then Jillian turned to a page with the heading, The King’s Most Extraordinary Forever More Cake.

  “A cake! That should be excellent practice. Does it have four layers, each with a different flavor?” Jack asked, hopefully.

  “No, it’s not a recipe. It was my mother’s favorite fairy tale. She used to read it to me. Now I’m going to read it to you.”

  Jack scoffed. “I’m too old for fairy tales. Can we make a cake instead?”

  “This is important, Jack. I need you to listen carefully.”

  “Okay, I owe you big-time. I got to see my brother riding an ostrich today. Read away.”

  Jillian began.

  Long ago in olden times, a king ruled a land known as Forever More. It was called Forever More because the good people of the kingdom were forevermore miserable. That’s because the king was forevermore unhappy with everything, so he took out his frustrations on whomever and whatever crossed his path.

  Every morning, the king screamed at the sun for being too bright and too yellow. He yelled at the royal cook when the eggs were the slightest bit runny. During his midday walk, he shouted at the ground beneath his feet for being excessively hard and accused the sky of lacking creativity.

  “Blue! Blue! Blue! All I see today is blue!”

  The king was most unreasonable at dinnertime. He banged his spoon on the table because the chicken soup was too soupy. He threw a tantrum claiming the silver forks clashed with the green peas. Dessert was either too sweet, or too bland, or “not even fit for the palace mice.”

  Terrified members of his court barely lasted a few days before being dismissed. When the king commanded that the royal baker plan his birthday cake, his assistant reminded him that he had just fired the baker for making a pineapple upside-down cake right-side up.

  “That makes five bakers this month,” the assistant said, ducking as the king flung a plate at his head.

  So the king ordered the court crier to issue an urgent proclamation:

  “Hear ye! Hear ye! His royal majesty requires all the bakers of Forever More to make a cake to celebrate his birthday. One, and only one, cake will be chosen for the gala. The baker of this extraordinary cake will be rewarded with a chest of gold and rubies. All other cake-makers will be imprisoned in the dungeon. Present all cakes at the castle gate tomorrow at noon.”

  When the bakers of the kingdom heard the news, they panicked. None had a clue how to bake a cake that would please the king, for as far as anyone could remember, the king had never been pleased.

  With their freedom at stake, the bakers used the best ingredients they could find. Cakes were topped with buttery icings and fresh-picked strawberries. Some mixed in the finest flour and milk from rare Turkish goats. Cakes with twelve, fifteen, and even eighteen layers towered toward the ceiling.

  The king sat on his throne and waited impatiently, grumbling at the castle sundial for being so lazy.

  At noon on the next day, a line of bakers stretched for a mile to the castle doors. Trembling, the bakers held cakes that would either unlock a chest of riches or condemn them to a life sentence in the dungeon.

  One by one, they presented their cakes to the king. And one by one, each was led to the dungeon by the palace guards.

  “Too salty,” the king complained.

  “This strawberry’s shape troubles me.”

  “I am not in the mood for chocolate.”

  As the sky began to darken, only one baker remained—an old man wearing tattered clothes and holding a simple one-layer cake with vanilla icing. The king looked at the old man and his cake with the utmost contempt.

  “What is this?” the king snorted.

  “Should I take him to the dungeon?” a guard barked.

  “Please,” the old man said. “I beg that you try it.”

  And the king did. After a long pause, he took a second bite and then a third before putting his fork down.

  “I have found my birthday cake!” the king declared, smiling for the first time since he was a child. “Give this fine man the chest of gold and rubies!”

  “Bless you. Bless you,” the old man said, tears of relief streaking down his face.

  “In exchange for your reward, I demand the recipe for this extraordinary cake so my royal baker can make it for me anytime I wish.”

  The king’s assistant chimed in. “But all the bakers in Forever More are in your dungeon,” he said, ducking as a fork whizzed over his head.

  “Then I will make it myself and I will be forevermore happy.”

  The old man wrote out the recipe and gave it to the king. He took the chest of gold and rubies and rushed back to his home on the edge of the forest to share the glorious news with his wife and sons.

  That night the king devoured the rest of the cake, but it did not completely satisfy his hunger. He pulled out the recipe and followed each direction exactly as written. Coming out of the oven, the cake smelled wonderful. But it tasted awful. He tried the recipe again and again and again with the same results. The more he baked, the angrier he became and the worse the cake tasted.

  “Find the old man and bring him to me this instant!” the king howled.

  The palace guards searched the kingdom. They found the old man and dragged him before the king.

  “I have followed your recipe, but my cakes do not taste like yours,” the king said, pointing to the fifteen cakes on the table, each with a single bite taken out of them. “Tell me what ingredient you have left out of the recipe. Your very life depends on it.”

  “I was afraid this would happen,” the old man said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is not what I have left out. It is what you have left out—love.”

  “Love!” the king bellowed. His face was beet red with rage. “What folly is this?”

  “When I make cakes, I think about the love I feel for my beautiful wife and sons. I pour that love into the batter. This is as important as the milk and sugar. That is why my cake tastes so extraordinary.”

  “Then you will be my royal baker who will make this cake anytime I desire.”

  “But, Your Majesty, it will not taste as you wish, I assure you.”

  Angered even further, the king threw the old man into the dungeon with the other bakers.

  That night the king tossed and turned in his royal chambers. He could not get the old man’s words out of his mind.

  The next morning, the king summoned his guards.

  “Release the bakers from the dungeon and send them home. Immediately.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  The king ran to the royal kitchen. He mixed flour, eggs, butter, and milk into a bowl. As he stirred, he closed his eyes and imagined the bakers returning to their families—the tears of joy, the warm embraces, and the sweet sound of laughter. Making the simple vanilla icing, he saw the old man hugging his sons and waltzing with his wife. From the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, he felt a warm glow that he had never experienced before.

  When the cake came out of the oven, the king took a bite.

  It was extraordinary.

  Jillian put down the recipe book.

  “It’s a nice fairy tale,” Jack said. “Thanks for reading it to me.”

  “But it’s more than a fairy tale,” Jillian insisted. “It’s true.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. When she baked, my mother always said: Don’t forget to add the most important ingredient—
love.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not buying it. Look in any of the Farnsworth cookbooks. Love is never mentioned. And if it’s true, then why is Grandma Rita’s baking so … uh …”

  “Indescribable?”

  “Yes. I’m sure she puts love in her baking.”

  “You still have to be a good baker. Adding love is the extra boost that makes something good … well … extraordinary.”

  “True or not, we can’t talk about this! We’ll get laughed off the stage. Guaranteed!”

  That night Jillian’s first chocolate rugelach lesson with her mother played again in her mind.

  “Okay, Jills, we’ve rolled the dough. Do you know what’s next?”

  “Baking it in the oven?”

  “Not quite. This is part of the recipe you won’t find in any book.”

  “Where would you find it?”

  Jillian’s mother pointed to her heart. “Right here. As I bake, I pull memories from my memory box. Sometimes I’ll remember my grandmother and the wonderful smells coming from her kitchen. I can see her singing ‘Hinei Ma Tov’ as she rolled dough for a crust. My memory box is so full I can always find something new to pull out. A good baker never enters the kitchen without a fully stocked memory box.”

  She showed Jillian how to lightly brush the rugelach with an egg wash. Then she gently sprinkled sugar on top before putting them in the oven.

  “What were you thinking of this time, Mom?” Jillian asked.

  “Usually these memories are kept inside. But since you asked, I was remembering the day you were born—the first time I rocked you in my arms and sang you a lullaby.”

  Jillian watched her mother glide around the kitchen like a winged angel carried along on a cloud of flour and granulated sugar. When Jillian took a bite of the chocolate rugelach, she filed the taste under the letter R in her own memory box.

  Chapter 20

  Two weeks later, the parents of the six contestants received a hand-delivered letter. Jillian, her father, and Grandma Rita sat down at the kitchen table and read it together.

  Greetings!

  On behalf of the Farnsworth Baking Supply Company, let me say we are delighted to have your child participating in the 75th Anniversary Edition of the Bakerstown Bonanza. Please read the following carefully as it contains important details regarding the event.

  • All contestants and family members must attend a pre-contest briefing session at the Farnsworth family estate on Saturday, April 5. A limousine will pick you up at your home at 9 a.m.

  • Participation is mandatory. Contracts will be signed at this time.

  • On-camera interviews will be conducted. These will be projected onto video screens during the event. Wear clothing that reflects your personality.

  • The Farnsworth Baking Supply Company reserves the right to use these interviews at our own discretion.

  I’m looking forward to meeting all of you in person.

  Best regards,

  Liz Escobar, Bakerstown Bonanza Coordinator

  Jillian noticed the word “discretion” again. She, her father, and Grandma Rita had rehearsed what they would say so their stories didn’t conflict. They agreed not to mention Jillian’s mother.

  “Your mother would never have been part of something like this,” Mr. Mermelstein said. “But now that we’re involved in this thing, we will keep our private lives private.”

  Jack and his family watched as a gold limousine measuring thirty feet long stopped in front of their house. Once inside, Jack ran his hand over the vehicle’s plush red velvet interior and poured himself a glass of grapefruit juice from a mini-fridge. He stretched out his legs and put his feet up on an empty seat.

  “Still think baking is a waste of time?” he asked Bruce, who was fidgeting with a remote control trying to find the Golf Channel on the limo’s television.

  “Put your feet down, Jack!” Mrs. Fineman scolded. “And don’t break anything! The last thing I want is to owe the Farnsworth family a nickel.”

  Jack tapped on the glass separating the Finemans from the uniformed chauffeur, who pressed a button to roll down the divider.

  “Once around the park,” Jack said in a voice imitating Farnsworth’s deep growl. “Then we’ll stop for a spot of ice cream, and then it’s off to the spa for manicures.”

  Bruce searched the remote in his hand, hoping to find an Eject button to launch his little brother through the limo’s open sunroof.

  “It’s official,” Bruce said. “You are Ardmore’s—no, the world’s—biggest dweeb.”

  “I may be a dweeb,” Jack said. “But remember it was me who was invited to the Farnsworth family estate. You’re just excess baggage. Hand me the ice tongs. I need to freshen my drink.”

  Meanwhile, a black limousine carrying Jillian and her family snaked through Ardmore’s brick streets, cruising past the Farnsworth factory and rows of single-family homes built for workers who flocked to the city as the company expanded. Mr. Mermelstein pointed out several potholes he had recently filled.

  Miles from downtown, six limousines turned down a winding lane marked Private. Rows of sycamore trees framed the long driveway. The drivers ignored the No Trespassing signs and rolled forward to an iron gate, which swung open as if by magic. The caravan of young bakers arrived at a four-story, golden-domed mansion so large it looked as if it could swallow all their homes in a single gulp. The Farnsworth family crest was featured prominently on the iron-studded wooden entrance.

  “I read that there are seven bathrooms on the first floor alone,” Jack said.

  “Why seven?” Mr. Fineman asked, looking up at the gargoyles leaning over the tiled roof.

  “Duh, Dad. One for each day of the week.”

  “Of course! How silly of me.”

  The oak door creaked open to reveal a woman dressed in a white linen pantsuit and holding a clipboard.

  “Hello, all. I’m Liz Escobar. Please call me Liz. Let me welcome you to the Farnsworth home. I take it your ride here was pleasant. We have a great deal to accomplish, so let’s get started.”

  She led the group into the foyer and down the main hallway. Jack’s eyes darted in every direction, making sure not to miss a single detail.

  I can’t believe I’m in Phineas Farnsworth’s mansion! Jack thought.

  As he walked, Jack recognized framed baking memorabilia hanging on the walls.

  “That’s Edna Harberg’s apron from the first year,” he shouted. “See! It still has the rhubarb stains on the left pocket. Amazing!”

  “Keep it down, would you?” Bruce whispered. “People are staring.”

  “Oooooh! There’s Lawrence Gregerson’s purple chef’s hat from 2003. I’d know it anywhere.”

  “Okay, Jack, calm down. Breathe!” Mr. Fineman urged.

  “How can I? That’s … that’s … the rare Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza from 1983. The one with the typo. You know, kosher silt, kosher salt! I have … never … seen … one … in … person!”

  Jack overheard Reginald from Old Harbor Academy whisper to his partner, Veronica, “That’s the boy from Sieberling School, the crazy one who thinks he can bake.”

  Thinks he can bake? Jack thought. You just watch!

  Liz led the group into a room with a large movie screen and rows of leather recliners.

  “This is Mr. Farnsworth’s private theater,” Liz said. “Please be seated.”

  Liz pressed a button. A twelve-foot-high image of Farnsworth appeared on the screen.

  “Darn,” Jack said. “He’s not here.”

  “Hello, my young friends. In a few weeks, something stupendous will take place. You, the young bakers of Ardmore, will show your friends, your neighbors, and the world that after seventy-five years, the Bakerstown Bonanza is stronger than ever. I handpicked each of you to represent the Farnsworth tradition of fine baking, and, dare I say, the future of the pastry world. So inspire us! Enthrall us! Bake your little hearts out! You are the very best Ardmore, Ohio, has to offer. Make us a
ll proud!”

  After Farnsworth’s face disappeared, the contestants jumped to their feet and applauded.

  Liz tapped a pen on the clipboard. “To get you better acquainted with your fellow chefs, let’s now watch the five-minute videos each of you sent in.”

  Jack’s eyes were transfixed to the screen as the videos played in succession. This would be his first chance to size up the competition. Furiously jotting down notes, he looked for strengths and weaknesses. It soon became apparent that Farnsworth had picked a strong group of foodies who knew how to bake.

  This will be challenging. We’ll have to be at the top of our game.

  Jillian’s video was the simplest. It began with her standing in Grandma Rita’s small kitchen clutching the chipped wooden spoon. Eyes closed, she appeared to be praying as she stirred the batter.

  “This spoon is very special to me. It has been in my family for generations. It’s what I use when I make rugelach with my bubbe. She’s amazing.”

  A close-up showed two sets of hands kneading the dough into a ball—one pair young and smooth, the other speckled with tan age spots. The Four Seasons played in the background.

  As Jillian cut the dough into wedges, Grandma Rita stood beside her. They each spread layers of chocolate. While waiting for the rugelach to bake, a montage showed Grandma Rita giving Jillian a golf lesson, changing the oil in her roadster, and replacing a leaky elbow pipe under the kitchen sink.

  “I told you my bubbe is amazing!” Jillian said.

  The final shot was of Jillian and Grandma Rita holding the plate of rugelach and saying in one voice, “Bon appetit!”

  Jack glanced at Jillian, who was grasping Grandma Rita’s hand as if she never wanted to let it go. Reginald and Veronica snickered as the video ended.

  Jack’s video played next.

  In the kitchen, Jack stared directly into the camera, which shook uncontrollably as if it had been attached to a careening mine cart. The Zombie Brunch song “What’s for Dinner?” blasted in the background.

  “I rock! I rule! I … am … unstoppable!” Jack wailed, standing next to his life-size cutout of Farnsworth.

  Chad bumped his head on a light fixture and shouted a stream of bleeped-out words.