He raced to the pantry and grabbed what he needed.
As Jack went to work, Jillian looked at Bruce and remembered Chad’s instructions: It doesn’t even have to make sense.
Not everything in life is supposed to make sense, she thought.
“Got it!” Jillian said, bolting to the cupboard and returning with an armful of ingredients. “You handle the cake. I’ll take care of the decorations.”
“Sounds good,” Jack said as he measured out cups of flour.
Jillian turned to her mother’s recipe for shortbread cookies. She mixed the batter and poured it into a pan. Once baked and cooled, she smoothed on white icing and cut it into tiny squares about the size of postage stamps.
Jack pulled his cake out of the oven, let it cool, and then iced it in a checkered pattern using every color he could remember from Bruce’s pants collection.
Jillian blocked out everything but the sound of her beating heart. Using a black edible marker, she wrote alphabet letters on each square and randomly arranged them on top of Jack’s checkered-pants icing.
“For Dad,” Jillian whispered.
“One last touch in honor of Chad,” Jack said, tossing a handful of blue and gold sprinkles onto the cake.
The buzzer sounded.
Jack and Jillian took deep breaths.
“Good job, partner,” Jack said, giving her a high five.
“It’s perfectly imperfect,” Jillian said.
“Monsieur Furveau, we present to you our Mixed-Up Scrabble Babble Cake,” Jack said with a flourish.
Chad took a bite of the cake, which was divided into four sections—maple, banana, coconut, and vanilla. Then he popped two shortbread Scrabble tiles into his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head as he savored the cookies.
“Say magic feet,” Chad said.
“You mean, C’est magnifique. It means, ‘It’s magnificent’ in French,” Jillian said.
“Well, it’s better than magnificent,” Chad said. “It will be the winning recipe! You did it! I knew you could!”
“Two words,” Jillian said.
“I know. I know. Beehive dance.”
As Jillian looked at the letters on top of the cake, she realized her life was still a jumble. She wanted to tell Jack what Liz had said: Talk about your mother and your chance of winning increases. Stay silent, disappoint Phineas Farnsworth III, and leave with nothing. No money for your family. No Culinary Education Center for the school. No recipe on the cover of the Farnsworth cookbook. She wondered how Jack would react if he knew. Would he force her to tell? And how would Jack feel learning that Farnsworth wanted her to be on his billboards and star in his commercials?
No more secrets, she vowed.
“Jack, I have something to say …”
“One sec, Jillian. Now that we have a recipe, we’re going to beat Old Harbor and Feldspar!” he said, showing Jillian his notes on the contestants. “I thought I’d have to wait seven years for my dream to come true. And when we win, this will be big for me, I mean, for us. Sorry, what did you want to say?”
“Never mind. It’s not important.”
I just can’t tell Jack the truth, not right now, she thought. It would destroy him, and the Bonanza hasn’t even begun.
Jillian reached down and arranged three letters on top of the cake to form the word MOM.
I wish you were here. You’d know what to do.
Chapter 24
Jack, his parents, and Bruce milled about in the Culinary Arts Pavilion. The other contestants and their families sipped coffee and picked at breakfast pastries as they awaited the start of the press conference. No one was more jittery than Jack.
In minutes, his idol would be standing near the apricot croissants offering his warmest welcome and, as Jack hoped, entertaining them with anecdotes about his days growing up in Ardmore.
Jack had stayed up half the night practicing exactly what he would say when shaking Phineas Farnsworth III’s hand: I have dreamed about being in the Bakerstown Bonanza my whole life. I will not disappoint you.
Then Jack imagined Farnsworth’s reply as he put his arm around his shoulder like a favorite uncle. I can’t wait to see what you bake.
Each contestant wore identical aprons and chef’s hats. The slogan, Little Hands with Big Appetites, was emblazoned in purple thread across the front of each apron. The hats bore the Farnsworth company logo.
Before Farnsworth and the media arrived, Liz gave the contestants a short pep talk. “Today’s press conference is as important as the baking tomorrow. Mr. Farnsworth, at great expense, has placed cameras around the pavilion to capture you at every possible angle. We don’t want to miss a moment.”
Liz stopped as Phineas Farnsworth III swept through the door. He wore his usual three-piece pinstriped suit and hand-stitched Italian shoes Jack recognized from a photograph he had seen in Forbes magazine.
“Those cost twenty thousand dollars. The heels are encrusted with real diamonds,” Jack said to his mother.
Farnsworth opened his arms wide and addressed the contestants.
“Let me welcome you all to the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Bakerstown Bonanza,” he boomed. “I assume this will be your first time talking to the press. My advice—be yourself. The camera is not your enemy. Think of it as your best friend and be ready to reveal your true self. Show your emotions. Have fun. And above all, let the world see who you are and why you deserve to be here.”
Farnsworth looked directly at Jillian and spoke slowly and clearly. “Don’t forget, we’re here to put on a good show.”
I will. Don’t you worry about that, she thought.
Reporters trickled into the pavilion. Soon every seat was occupied. Jack recognized the food critic from The New York Times and writers from every major gourmet magazine and blog. News crews from the local station, cable channels like the Fab Food Network, and even CNN were there.
Jillian looked out at the sea of media, shocked by the amount of people who would be capturing her every word. No fewer than six television cameras swiveled toward the long table where she and the other contestants waited to be poked and prodded. Family members sat on folding chairs behind them.
The contestants stood, said their name and school, and introduced their guests.
When it was Jack’s turn, he didn’t hold back:
“Jack Fineman is in the house, folks! Give it up! Behind me is the whole fam—my dad, mom, and my older brother, Bruce.”
From down the table, Jack heard Reginald and Veronica let out a simultaneous cackle, followed by “Jinx!”
“Look … at … those … pants!” Reginald whispered loud enough to be picked up by the microphone. Some reporters chuckled. Everyone turned toward Bruce, who fought back tears.
Jack paused. He found it strange to see his brother, for once, on the hurtful side of the teasing equation. He watched as Bruce melted under the hot lights, every camera and phone pointed in the direction of his multihued slacks. He heard the crowd’s guffaws begin to swell. It only took a moment for Jack to decide what to do.
“Go ahead and laugh,” he snarled. “But in a few years you’ll be watching my brother on the Golf Channel winning millions of dollars. He rocks at golf! And his pants rock, too!”
Jillian gave Jack a slight grin.
“With that out of the way, we’re ready for our first question,” Farnsworth said.
A correspondent from Chef’s Monthly asked, “While I’m sure you don’t want to reveal too much about your recipe, could you tell us a little about your strategy for winning? What gives you the edge over your competition? And who inspires you?”
Quentin Lindenberg from Feldspar Math and Science Institute gave a quick answer.
“Baking is really very simple,” he said. “Every ingredient must be measured exactly and blended with the others at the precise moment. There is no room for error. One extra granule of salt could disrupt the recipe’s delicate balance. You won’t find Marcia and me adding a pinch of anything
. We believe in magic—the magic of chemistry.”
“Quentin and I have been chemistry partners since third grade,” Marcia added. “What we will bake tomorrow will be based on hours and hours spent together in the lab, uh, kitchen. To create a successful recipe, you must understand how carbohydrates, proteins, and fats work together.”
“In less technical terms, our dessert will be really yummy,” Quentin said as the pool of reporters laughed.
Veronica of Old Harbor Academy spoke next.
“Reginald and I have carefully studied the great chefs of the world. Last year Old Harbor offered a summer seminar in ‘The History of French Pastries’ based on the book by the great Francois Furveau. It was our honor to meet him in person. He has been a huge help to us.”
I knew it, Jack thought.
“We know this event is important to our school, to our city, and to the long legacy of pastry chefs far and wide,” Reginald said. “Our strategy is to approach the contest with the same attitude as we approach everything at Old Harbor—coming in second place is not an option. Failure is not part of our vocabulary. Our dessert will be like nothing the contest has ever seen—a true work of art. As Francois Furveau says, ‘If Rembrandt were alive today, he’d be decorating cupcakes.’ We can’t wait for tomorrow.”
Jack jumped up.
“We can’t wait, either!” he shouted. “Not to trash-talk the other schools, but Sieberling is going to dominate this event. Guaranteed! Forget chemistry formulas and the great Francois Furveau. I know more about the Bakerstown Bonanza than anyone alive, other than Phineas Farnsworth III. Go on, ask me anything.”
“Jack, please,” Jillian whispered.
From the back, a reporter shouted, “Who won the contest in 1957?”
“Easy peasy. Blaire Tremont from Madison, Wisconsin. She made a blueberry cheesecake. The runner-up was Cindy Strassford from Lexington, Kentucky, with a caramel flan topped with figs. Boom! Is that the best you’ve got?”
Another reporter started to speak when Farnsworth interrupted.
“I’m afraid Jillian Mermelstein hasn’t had the opportunity to answer the first question. Tell us, Jillian, what is your strategy for winning?”
“To do my best,” she said.
Farnsworth continued.
“Is there anyone special you’ll be thinking about as you bake? Anyone who has inspired you?”
“Yes, actually two people, my father and Grandma Rita,” she said, pointing behind her.
“How lovely,” Farnsworth said, his face growing red with anger. “Is there someone else who you wish could be here with you today?”
Sorry, memory box closed, Jillian thought.
“No. But thank you for asking.”
Farnsworth persisted.
“Don’t be coy. Tell us about that special person who inspires you.”
Jillian looked at the reporters and cameras. She glanced back at her father and Grandma Rita.
“Well, I guess you could say you’ve inspired me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve shown me the importance of standing up for what I believe no matter how much somebody pushes you around,” Jillian said.
Farnsworth’s face turned the color of an overripe tomato about to implode in the hot sun.
As the press conference continued, Jack conducted himself as Liz had instructed. He sang his favorite Zombie Brunch song, juggled spatulas, and shouted out a school cheer he and Chad had written: “Roses are red, violets are blue, if you’re not a Fighting Mustang, I feel sorry for you!”
“That went pretty well,” Jack said to Jillian afterward. “But I wonder why Farnsworth looks so angry.”
“No idea, Jack. Come on, we’re supposed to be in the parade.”
Chad texted Jack:
Phineas Farnsworth III and the mayor led the Ardmore Heritage Parade riding in the back of a Rolls-Royce convertible. A float followed holding past Bonanza winners. The crowd lined both sides of Market Street, waving and cheering as a team of dancing horses, the city’s fleet of fire trucks, and kids dressed like spoons and forks strode by. The Ardmore High School marching band played the bouncy tune of the 1940s radio jingle, “F Is for Fun, Food, and Farnsworth.” Over and over again.
Jillian, Jack, and the other contestants rode on the Farnsworth company float—a huge mixing bowl sitting on a flatbed truck decorated to resemble a kitchen countertop. They perched on the rim and tossed sample bags of Farnsworth Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips to the crowd. An updated version of the Farnsworth jingle from the 1980s blasted from speakers painted to resemble boxes of baking soda:
Farnsworth puts the fun in food
So if you’re in a foodie mood
Be a righteous gal or dude
And bake with Farnsworth attitude!
After the parade, the contestants signed autographs and posed for publicity photos. Liz met the six bakers back at the fairgrounds for final instructions.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” they all moaned, exhausted from the strain of smiling throughout the day.
“Wonderful. My team and I have taken the liberty of writing brief scripts for each of you. That will be one less thing you’ll have to worry about. No thanks necessary. I suggest you memorize it. The words will also appear on a teleprompter.”
Liz handed out the scripts. Jack glanced at his.
Mr. Farnsworth: All of our bakers were allowed to bring one item to help them. And what did you bring?
Jack: The choice was obvious. I brought my Farnsworth Magic Rolling Pin Junior. It flattens dough without the fuss thanks to its sure-grip handles that won’t slip or slide.
Mr. Farnsworth: Another fine pick!
“This will be easy,” Jack said to Jillian. “All I have to do is talk about one of Farnsworth’s products. What does yours say?”
Jillian scanned her sheet.
“Same as yours, Jack.”
“Secondly, be at the convention center at nine o’clock sharp,” Liz continued. “Now go home, rehearse your lines, and get a good night’s sleep.”
“How am I going to sleep?” Jack said. “After tomorrow, we’ll be the heroes of Sieberling School and our recipe will be on the cover of the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbook. We’ll … be … world … famous.”
“Jack—”
“I apologize. I was wrong about us. We do make a great team. Jack and Jillian—the grand prize winners of the seventy-fifth Bakerstown Bonanza!”
Jillian tried to tell Jack the truth, but her lips failed to form the words. She felt like Phineas Farnsworth III, holding Jack’s fate in her hands.
She looked down at the script and thought about her father.
What am I going to do?
Chapter 25
While the contestants’ families chatted in the fairgrounds parking lot, Jack sneaked off to get a selfie with Phineas Farnsworth III.
He moved quietly through the empty midway, past the dunking booth and the bumper car ride. Everyone had left for the day. Liz spotted him as he drew closer to the Culinary Arts Pavilion where the press conference had been held.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” she said, breathlessly. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. There’s somebody rather important who would like a few words with you.”
“You mean …”
“Yes, Mr. Farnsworth asked me to find you. He’s a busy man, so consider yourself very fortunate. He told me he wanted a few minutes to get to know you personally.”
This … is … not … happening!
Jack wobbled on his feet. “He wants to meet me? I was just going to see if I could get a selfie with him. My parents are waiting …”
“This won’t take long. Like I said, he doesn’t have much time to spare.”
Liz led Jack to a long wooden structure on the edge of the fairgrounds. A carved sign over the door read, 4-H Building. From the front stoop, Jack smelled the pungent odors of deep-fried pickles and sheep manure, which were w
afting from a nearby barn. His heart thumped hard as he pushed open the door and walked to the back of the cavernous, dimly lit space, where Farnsworth sat at a card table, hunched over and cloaked in shadows.
Farnsworth stood up as Jack approached. All six feet and six inches of him loomed over the starstruck boy. He gave Jack a firm handshake, the kind business leaders use to finalize an important deal. Jack winced as Farnsworth’s enormous hand squeezed his own.
“Please sit down, Jack,” Farnsworth said in a silky tone, far different from what Jack had heard during his television interviews. “So glad Liz was able to corral you. I wanted to compliment you in person on your outstanding performance today during the press conference. A video of you juggling spatulas has already gone viral. More than one hundred thousand views in a little more than two hours. You’re famous already, young man!”
“Really?” Jack said, the word escaping from his mouth in a nervous whisper. He still couldn’t believe Farnsworth was right in front of him!
“Yes, Jack. One … hundred … thousand. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. With your assistance, this could be our most successful Bonanza ever.”
“You can count on me,” Jack said.
“Superb. I knew I could.” He held up some sheets of paper Jack recognized as his application to the Bonanza. “It says here that you own a life-size cardboard cutout of me. Ah yes, I do recall seeing that in your video as well. I’d have to say that while I’ve received hundreds of honors over my career, no one has ever rescued me from a trash bin at their local Food Mart. I’m flattered.”
“It’s by my bed,” Jack said. “It kind of creeps my parents out, but—”
Farnsworth interrupted. “It also appears that fame is of great importance to you. That’s good. It’s what drives people like us. It’s fuel for our engines. Food for our souls. But as you’ll learn, there are no guarantees in life. Simply wanting fame is not enough.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” Farnsworth chuckled. “Let me ask: How does one rise to the top of the baking world? Why do some pastry chefs end up perched atop a six-tiered cake while others flounder in the bottom of the mixing bowl? By having life-sized dreams—like yours. And by not letting anything or anyone stand in the way of achieving them.”
$150,000 Rugelach Page 11