“Another superb selection.”
Quentin and Marcia of Feldspar also talked about items from Farnsworth’s new line of gadgets—a citrus grater and a set of piping tips.
Then Farnsworth focused on Jack.
“And what did you bring?”
Jack pulled out a photograph from his apron pocket and held it up.
Farnsworth frowned as his face took on the hue of a radish.
“These are my great-grandparents Stan and Leah Goldfarb,” Jack said, ignoring the teleprompter. Cameras zeroed in on the photo, which was projected on the screens above Farnsworth’s glistening head. “Leah passed away before I was born, but I’ve been told she spent her days making pastries and breads in her shop—Goldfarb Bakery—at the corner of Market and Maple streets, right here in Ardmore. I’m sure you’re familiar with the spot. People would travel miles to taste her cherry-covered cheesecakes and chocolate rugelach. She is my inspiration. Her entire life was about baking and bringing joy to others.”
“How endearing.” Farnsworth scowled.
To Jack, it looked like Farnsworth wanted to spring from his chair and shred the photo into a million pieces.
“And what have you brought today to help you in the kitchen, Jillian?” Farnsworth asked. “Tell our audience the story behind it.”
Jack glanced at Jillian’s teleprompter. There were no words about blenders, sifters, or food processors. It was all about her mother and the pastry shop. The cameras closed in on her tearstained face. Trembling, she appeared to be on the verge of passing out.
Jillian held up the wooden spoon, which she had hidden in her sleeve. She looked at her father and started to speak.
“This spoon belonged to—”
“My great-grandmother Leah,” Jack interrupted, looking directly at Farnsworth. “Since I could only bring one item, I gave Jillian the spoon. It’s our good luck charm.”
Farnsworth opened and closed his mouth several times as his eyes bored holes into the Sieberling School team. Finally he spat out, “Okay, let’s move on …”
“Wait, I have something else I want to say,” Jack continued, gazing into Jillian’s eyes before turning back to Farnsworth. “Cooking is not a contest. It is a prayer whispered humbly as the sun rises.”
“When no one else is looking,” Jillian added. “When the rest of the world sleeps.”
Farnsworth stormed off the stage as Liz took the microphone.
“Sit tight! We’ll be right back with the start of the Bakerstown Bonanza!” she said.
“Thank you, Jack,” Jillian said, looking relieved. “I would have done it for my dad, for you …”
“I know, but it wouldn’t have been right.”
“My mother would have liked you,” Jillian said, taking Jack’s hand in hers.
“Why?”
“Because you have a good heart.”
Chapter 28
Trailed by Liz, Farnsworth returned to the stage. Jack could see it in his eyes: The results of the Bakerstown Bonanza were a done deal. Sieberling School was doomed to finish last—again. There would be no money, no fame, no immortality, and no recipe in the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbook.
I can live with that, Jack thought.
Farnsworth wore his phoniest grin as he addressed the competitors.
“I’ve been judging this contest for the last forty years. While we’ve had many amazing entries, I believe the young chefs of Ardmore can do even better. You will have three hours to create a dessert worthy of the Farnsworth name. I am expecting great things here today. Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-fifth Bonanza begin!”
The Old Harbor and Feldspar teams sprang into action.
Jillian stared down at her spoon, fingering the triangular notch missing from its top—slightly broken, forever incomplete.
Jack turned to Jillian and smiled.
“Let’s make some chocolate rugelach,” he said.
“Yes, for my mother and your great-grandmother.”
“And for Ardmore, Ohio.”
As Jillian combined the ingredients to make the dough, she heard her mother’s voice whispering a suggestion.
“You add the flour, Jack,” Jillian said. “Then stir with this.” She held up the wooden spoon.
“Me? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Jack closed his eyes and blended the ingredients, blocking out the whir of mixers, the clanging of pots, and the raised voices coming from the other teams’ kitchens.
“Faster!” Veronica shouted at Reginald. “Why are you so slow today? This is for the big money. Remember, second place is not an option. We can’t lose because of you. Hurry!”
Taking turns, Jack and Jillian worked the dough and then cut it into four sections before placing them in the refrigerator.
While the dough chilled, Jillian blended chocolate, cocoa, butter, sugar, salt, and cinnamon.
More shouts came from one of the other kitchens.
“350 degrees! Not 375! 350! Are you dense?” Marcia said.
“The recipe calls for 375,” Quentin insisted. “And you’re the one who put in too much butter!”
Jack rolled the dough into circles. Jillian coated them with the chocolate mixture. They each cut the dough into eight triangular-shaped pieces.
“These are not even at all,” Jack said. “Farnsworth isn’t going to like that.”
“Don’t worry. They’re perfectly imperfect,” Jillian said.
The sound of a baking pan crashing against a granite countertop echoed throughout the auditorium.
“No! No! No!” Veronica yelled, inspecting the baking pan for dents. “You’re layering the icing too thick. It’s an absolute disaster!”
“You’re the absolute disaster!” Reginald shot back. “Do not question the artist!”
Jack and Jillian rolled their dough into crescent shapes, placed them on baking sheets, and put them in the oven.
“Now what?” Jack asked.
“Now we talk. Tell me about your great-grandmother.”
Jack leaned up against the counter of their kitchen. He felt strangely calm, especially compared to the contestants from the rival schools. “My mother said her bubbe baked to survive. It was all she knew.”
“She looks sad,” Jillian said, examining the photograph.
“She was. This was the day they torn down Goldfarb Bakery. My mom is afraid I’ll end up like her.”
“You won’t. Not if you love what you’re doing. And not if you put love in what you bake.”
“I was thinking of my great-grandmother baking in her kitchen as I was stirring,” Jack said. “But I don’t know if I did it right. Is that all there is to putting love in your cooking?”
“Not exactly. It’s hard to explain. Like when Mom said, ‘Cooking is not a contest,’ I think she meant the reason behind why you bake is just as important as how you bake. Let’s say you’re making a batch of peanut butter cookies for a sick friend. It’s the simplest recipe ever: one egg, a cup of white sugar, and a cup of peanut butter.”
“I’d add a touch of sea salt, maybe extra-dark chocolate, and a smidge of chili powder. Now that’s a peanut butter cookie,” Jack said.
“You’re missing the point. There’s nothing special about the recipe. No fancy ingredients. No baking tricks required. But you still must want them to be the best peanut butter cookies ever made. By anyone. So you put your heart into it … when no one else is looking.”
“Like your mother said.”
“Yes. You make sure the ingredients are mixed just right. You test the batter for the ideal consistency. You ask questions: Are they soft and chewy but not too gooey? Are the edges crispy but not crumbly? And you always keep in mind who will be eating them. Not to impress anyone or win a trophy. But to—”
“Bring joy?” Jack said.
“Boom!” Jillian replied, giving him a high five. “Let’s try this—together.”
Jack and Jillian peeked in the oven and took in the full aroma of the ch
ocolate rugelach. They watched the pastries turn golden brown as the chocolate bubbled between the layers of flaky dough. In an instant, Jillian was back in Joan of Hearts Pastry Shop, a time when her life seemed filled with endless possibilities. Jack imagined himself in Goldfarb Bakery, watching a young woman working in the kitchen, the sun rising outside her window. She smiled as she packaged boxes of rugelach for friends and family.
“It’s time to finish up,” Jillian said.
Jack pulled out the baking sheets and set each one on a cooling rack.
Jillian then arranged the cookies on a plain white tray. She laid her wooden spoon across the top and set the photograph next to it.
“Ten seconds left,” Jack said.
He took Jillian’s hand as they stared down at the simple chocolate-filled cookies—flawed, oddly shaped, and curious.
“One final touch,” Jillian said.
She took a sifter, closed her eyes, and sprinkled a gentle dusting of powdered sugar on top.
Chapter 29
Jack and Jillian stared wide-eyed at the entries from Feldspar and Old Harbor. Quentin and Marcia had created a cake shaped like an electron microscope, complete with slides. Reginald and Veronica baked a four-tiered replica of the Farnsworth mansion. The letters PF were done in purple icing between the second and third layers of the cake. The top was a perfectly shaped dome covered in gold fondant. A red carpet made from strawberry glaze led up to two marzipan doors, which opened and closed on licorice hinges. The microscope and mansion cakes cast a long shadow over the plate of chocolate rugelach.
“Our young chefs have certainly approached this contest differently,” Farnsworth said as he looked back and forth between the three desserts. “Which one do you think belongs on the cover of the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbook? Marcia and Quentin, what is this spectacular creation you’ve made for us today?”
“It’s our Cooking-Is-Chemistry Cake,” Marcia said. “Other than the fact that it was baked at 375 degrees rather than 350 degrees, we followed the formula exactly.”
“The temperature was ideal,” Quentin said. “But don’t be surprised if you taste two extra milligrams of butter in the frosting.”
Farnsworth picked up one of the microscope’s slides.
“This is most interesting,” he said.
“Yes, that slide shows a common bacteria found in kitchens,” Marcia said cheerfully. “It’s invisible to the naked eye. Do you know how many bacteria are swimming on a kitchen sponge?”
“Millions!” Quentin said. “The slides are miniature sugar cookies. We used lemon and cream cheese icing for the bacteria. This one shows virus cells up close. It’s made with real cherries because we go to a STEM school! Get it?”
Jack smiled. He knew that no matter how good the cake tasted, Farnsworth would never put a dessert featuring a multitude of microorganisms on the cover of his cookbook. As he took a bite, Farnsworth’s expression didn’t change at all.
Well, that leaves Sieberling School and Old Harbor Academy, Jack thought.
“Jillian and Jack, tell me about this fine plate of cookies you’ve prepared,” Farnsworth said, tugging at his long goatee.
Jack recognized Farnsworth’s sarcastic tone. “Fine” meant “pathetic,” which meant, You are losers.
“It’s chocolate rugelach, a traditional Jewish pastry,” Jack said. “People started making it in Europe more than two hundred years ago. It was one of Leah Goldfarb’s specialties. She delivered trays of it to families in Ardmore during Hanukkah.”
“What a sweet story,” Farnsworth said.
Jack knew that “sweet” meant “boring,” which meant, Poof, no viral videos or press coverage for you!
“Jillian, you tell me why this chocolate rugelach should be on the cover of the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza.”
He’s giving me one last chance, Jillian thought. Won’t he ever admit defeat?
“Because it is delicious,” she said loudly and clearly.
“Many things are delicious. But why chocolate rugelach?”
“Because it will stay with you forever,” she said, pausing to run her finger over the chipped spoon before gazing directly at the man scowling behind the microphone. “And, Mr. Farnsworth, this rugelach will help you to remember something very important that maybe you’ve forgotten.”
For a brief second, a look of confusion flitted across Farnsworth’s face. “Well, this must be one powerful cookie.” He winked as he held up a piece and took a small bite.
Farnsworth wanted to hate it. Despise it. After Jack and Jillian refused to read their prepared speeches, he had told Liz to get a close-up of his face as he bit into Sieberling School’s “utter failure,” whatever it was. He demanded that his look of disgust appear on all three video screens for the press and the town to watch in real time.
Even though Jack felt good about defying his former idol, the expression that formed on Farnsworth’s face was one he never expected to see.
It was contentment. Peace. Innocence. Jillian saw it immediately. The chocolate and cream cheese had somehow flung open the top of Farnsworth’s memory box, flooding him with his past—the smell in his kitchen when his nanny, Miss Alexandra, was making him chocolate brownies.
There was complete silence as Farnsworth savored the bite. The audience held their breath. Farnsworth brought the rest of the piece up to his face, staring at it as if he’d never seen a baked good like it. Then he popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes.
“Best try another one, just to make sure,” he said, still chewing the first.
Same expression.
“There’s a lot at stake here. We can’t leave anything to chance.” So Farnsworth gobbled down a third piece and then a fourth.
A more bitter expression appeared on Farnsworth’s face. It was a look that said, There is no way this chocolate rugelach could have been baked by a pair of eleven-year-olds from Ardmore, Ohio. Not possible.
“I hope you like them,” Jillian said. “We’ve included a special ingredient.”
“Well, I must say you’ve made a noble attempt,” Farnsworth said, licking his fingers. “Bravo to both of you. Baking an exceptional rugelach can be tricky. Alas, it’s a bit dry and not as light and flaky as I’d like it to be.”
Jack knew that “dry” meant “the best rugelach I have ever eaten.”
Farnsworth turned to Reginald and Veronica’s four-tiered cake. He peeked around every corner and paused to admire the level of detail, right down to the cursive PF logo.
“For once, words escape me,” Farnsworth said. “It’s amazing what you can do with the right tools in the kitchen! Veronica, tell me about the cake.”
“We wanted to make something as magnificent as the Farnsworth mansion. Everything we thought of seemed small and—”
“Pathetic?” Farnsworth said, glancing at the chocolate rugelach.
“Yes, small and pathetic in comparison. So we made a cake of your family estate done in four layers, alternating between maple, banana, coconut, and vanilla fillings.”
The top four flavors!!! I guess I’m not the only one who did the research, Jack thought.
“Not to use a cliché, but your cake looks almost too good to eat. But I must.”
Farnsworth took a fork and plunged it into the top layer. It met little resistance as it speared the cake. A mixture of icing and undercooked batter ran off his fork and down his sleeve. He shoved the gooey clump as quickly as possible into his mouth.
“Mmmm, moist,” he said. “Let’s try another bite of this most delici—”
Before Farnsworth finished the word “delicious,” the cake leaned to one side. The dome slid off and the rest of the layers oozed downward in slow motion. The PF morphed into a pool of crimson mush. With a loud splat, the mass fell onto the floor, covering Farnsworth’s twenty-thousand-dollar shoes in red, purple, and gold.
The audience let out a collective gasp.
Farnsworth looked out into the crowd. All he saw were ten
thousand flashing phones held aloft.
Wiping maple filling off his goatee, Farnsworth made a slashing motion with his hand and the video screens went blank. Then he charged off the stage.
“I’m announcing Reginald and Veronica as the winners!” Farnsworth yelled from the contestants’ waiting room, the door closed so no one could hear him.
“But their cake was a disaster!” Liz said. “How about the Cooking-Is-Chemistry Cake?”
“Great idea, Liz. What’s less appetizing than sugar cookie microscope slides showing viruses and bacteria? Nothing! That’s what! So Old Harbor Academy’s cake wins.”
“But their cake slid off the table! It has never happened before!”
“I don’t care. Jillian and Jack do not win. Period.”
“But everyone saw it! Their families! The crew! And, by now, all social media sites!”
Farnsworth feverishly paced the floor. “Think! Think! Think! There has got to be a way out of this mess. There’s always a way out.”
Liz remained silent.
As Farnsworth rushed back onto the stage, he vowed, “I’m never coming back to Ardmore! Never!”
Farnsworth stood before Jack, Jillian, Veronica, Reginald, Marcia, and Quentin. In his hands he held three trophies, one for each winning baker and another twenty-inch trophy for the school.
The three teams’ entries sat on the table beside him—the half-eaten plate of chocolate rugelach, the microscope cake, and what was left of the mansion replica rescued from the floor and heaped back onto a tray.
Refusing to acknowledge Jack and Jillian, Farnsworth stared at Reginald and Veronica as he began.
“I can tell you from years of experience that being a successful businessman can be full of surprises. And surprises make life exciting. What we discovered here today is sometimes talented young people with big ideas and big dreams may reach too high, but their pursuit of greatness is what matters most. The Farnsworth food empire was built by taking chances and thinking outside the box. We learned from our failures. Where some see a disaster, I see a victory. Often our grandest mistakes are, in fact, our most glorious achievements. And those who reach for the stars ultimately rise to the top.”
$150,000 Rugelach Page 13