$150,000 Rugelach

by Allison Marks

  Reginald and Veronica smiled.

  “With this in mind, I proudly present these trophies and the $150,000 check to …”

  Farnsworth paused for dramatic effect, savoring the feeling of absolute power, his favorite part of the Bakerstown Bonanza—that moment before changing a life or crushing a dream with the utterance of a few words. He had done it for the last forty years, never once showing a hint of uncertainty. Once he had made up his mind, the final results were chiseled in stone.

  But this time, before saying the names of the winning team, the memory of that fantastic chocolate rugelach overwhelmed him. Farnsworth faltered.

  “And the winners of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Bakerstown Bonanza are Jillian Mermelstein and Jack Fineman of Sieberling School!” Farnsworth seemed shocked by his announcement, stunned by his own words. In a daze, he handed out the trophies and presented the oversize check to Jack and Jillian.

  Balloons and confetti fell from the ceiling as Jack’s parents hugged. Bruce jumped up and down as if he had won the PGA Championship. Grandma Rita and Mr. Mermelstein broke down in tears of joy. Farnsworth grabbed the plate of chocolate rugelach and retreated behind the stage. Students in Sieberling School’s cheering section began a chant of “JACK AND JILLIAN! JACK AND JILLIAN! JACK AND JILLIAN!”

  Everyone turned around as the sound of an earsplitting HOOOOONNNNNNKKKKK! filled the auditorium.

  It was Principal Dobkins clutching Chad’s air horn, a wide grin plastered to his face.

  “Not for indoor use,” Chad called out as blue and gold glitter rained down around them.

  Liz appeared as the families gathered around Jack and Jillian.

  “Congratulations to both of you!” she said. “There is one final step before you receive the $150,000. As mentioned in the contract, you will give us a copy of the winning recipe. Once Mr. Farnsworth makes it and is satisfied, the money is yours and the recipe will appear on the front cover of the cookbook.”

  Jillian wrote out the recipe and handed it to Liz.

  “This is only a formality,” Liz said. “We’ll notify you when your check is ready.”

  Chapter 30

  As Jillian got ready for school the next morning, Mr. Mermelstein received a call from Liz.

  “We have a big problem. Mr. Farnsworth is furious. I’ve never seen him so upset—and I’ve seen it all. A limousine will arrive within the hour to take you to the convention center. He has been there all night! The Finemans are coming as well.”

  “What exactly is this big problem?” Mr. Mermelstein asked.

  “There’s no time to explain. Mr. Farnsworth will fill you in when you get here. Please hurry!”

  When the Mermelsteins and Finemans arrived, they found Farnsworth hovering over one of the kitchen units. Plates of chocolate rugelach were scattered amongst mixing bowls, empty flour sacks, and measuring cups. Jillian’s recipe lay in the middle of the chaos. Sweat clung to Farnsworth’s scalp and splotches of batter stained his brow. His apron was streaked with chocolate smears.

  “I have an issue with your chocolate rugelach recipe, Miss Mermelstein,” Farnsworth said, barely controlling his anger.

  “What’s wrong?” Jillian asked. “Your batches look fine.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, his voice rising. “As you can see, I’ve made your chocolate rugelach a dozen times, followed your recipe exactly, but it doesn’t taste anything like what you made.”

  “But you said ours was small and pathetic,” Jillian said.

  “Stop pretending,” Farnsworth spat. “You and I both know your chocolate rugelach was extraordinary. That’s why you won. But what’s before you is not even ordinary.”

  Jillian sampled a piece. It tasted like gritty sand on a saltine cracker.

  I was afraid this would happen, she thought.

  Jillian scanned the recipe and saw the correct ingredients in the precise amounts.

  “The recipe is fine the way it is.”

  “You’re lying!” Farnsworth yelled. “You’ve left something out! What is it? If you don’t tell me, you can say bye-bye to the money.”

  Grandma Rita tried to interrupt, but Farnsworth was on a roll.

  He jabbed the air in Jillian’s direction. “And as far as making you the spokesperson for my ‘Little Hands with Big Appetites’ line, you can forget that, too! No commercials! No splashy ads in magazines! No trips around the world!”

  “Spokesperson?” Jack said. “You never told me. And you’re giving all that up? Why?”

  Jillian shrugged. “It was never my dream.”

  Jack looked at Farnsworth. “It’s not mine anymore, either.”

  Jillian’s father had heard enough.

  “You’re a crook!” Mr. Mermelstein said. “The money belongs to Jack and Jillian. You can’t take that away from them. We’ll sue.”

  “Forget about suing him,” Mr. Fineman said. “I’m going to sock him in the mouth.”

  “Stand aside. I get the first shot,” Mrs. Fineman added, rolling up her sleeve.

  “Did I mention that Grandma Rita also has a black belt in karate?” Jillian said.

  “I wouldn’t try it,” Farnsworth said, wagging his finger. “You didn’t read the contract carefully. If I can’t duplicate the recipe, I have the right—the discretion—to deny the winners the money. My team of lawyers will back me up on this.”

  Discretion. That word again, Jillian thought.

  “Go ahead, Jillian. Tell Farnsworth the secret ingredient,” Jack urged.

  “He’ll never believe me.”

  “Oh, after today, I’ll believe anything,” Farnsworth said. “Come on, tell me the secret ingredient. What … did … you … leave … out?”

  “It’s not what I left out. It’s what you left out—love.”

  “Did you say love?” Farnsworth snorted.

  “Yes, love,” Jack said. “Without it, your chocolate rugelach won’t taste nearly as sweet. Nothing will. Jillian learned it from her mom and I learned it from Jillian.”

  Farnsworth’s laughter filled the auditorium.

  “That’s preposterous! Absurd! The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in all my years in the food industry!”

  “But it’s true!” Jillian said. “Why else are you having trouble making the chocolate rugelach?”

  “Because it’s missing a real ingredient, whatever that is. I’m calling my lawyers to disqualify both of you. Keep the trophies. They’re made of cheap plastic, anyway. And no Culinary Education Center for your school, either. I have a flight to catch to Switzerland. So farewell to you all … and good riddance to Ardmore.”

  Jack and Jillian watched as Farnsworth turned and headed for the exit. They scanned the countertop where plates of the rugelach lay uneaten and inedible, searching for an answer amongst the jumble of Farnsworth’s failed attempts.

  Before he reached the door, Jillian shouted, “Mr. Farnsworth, please! We can help you make the chocolate rugelach the way you want it.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” Farnsworth laughed, not turning around. “And I told you, my time here is done. Now, goodbye!” He reached for the door handle.

  “Say something else, Jillian! Anything!” Jack pleaded. “He’s leaving!”

  That’s when the quiet girl who sat in the back row next to the storage closet reached deep within herself, filling the auditorium with the sound of an eleven-year-old who had come too far to simply give up.

  “How would Miss Alexandra have made the chocolate rugelach?”

  Farnsworth stopped. He slowly turned and faced Jillian and Jack.

  “What … did … you … say?” His voice was hard, as if covered in ice.

  This time Jillian spoke as gently as she could, recalling the sound of her mother’s voice telling her that everything would work out.

  “How would Miss Alexandra have made the chocolate rugelach?”

  Farnsworth took a step backward, the mere mention of the name jabbing at his heart. H
e composed himself and staggered toward Jillian.

  “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, young lady, but I don’t like it. How could you possibly have known about Miss Alexandra?”

  “You can learn a lot from a simple Google search,” Jillian said. “Miss Alexandra used to tell you funny stories. Took you to the park. You went ice skating together. She baked you chocolate brownies—the best you’d ever eaten. You were her Little Cupcake. She loved you and you loved her. And nothing has ever been the same since she …”

  Farnsworth’s face burned red hot. He towered over Jillian, glaring downward.

  “Those are my memories! Mine and only mine!” he wailed. “They belong to me! Not you, or Google, or anybody else. How dare you!”

  Jillian stood tall and waited for the storm to pass.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She reached up and grasped his hand. Slightly broken. Forever incomplete.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” she said.

  Farnsworth slumped his shoulders, the weight of Jillian’s words pressing down on him. Still holding Jillian’s hand, he knelt to look her squarely in the eyes.

  “I still miss her,” he said. “I was only ten. None of it made any sense.”

  “Not everything in life is supposed to make sense,” she replied.

  “Could you show me how to use the special ingredient?” Farnsworth said, his anger subsiding. “I’m still not sure I believe it, but I’m willing to give it a last try.”

  “Jack and I will help,” Jillian said. “Opening a memory box that’s been closed for so long is hard. It’s painful. That’s why it’s easier to keep it under lock and key. Do you think you can remember?”

  “Memory box?”

  “We’ll explain. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “Alright then. Let’s bake something—together.”

  Everyone watched Phineas Farnsworth III, flanked on either side by Jack and Jillian, take his place behind the counter where he had spent the night trying to replicate the chocolate rugelach.

  “There’s nothing unusual about these ingredients,” Jillian said. “They’re the same ones you used in your last twelve attempts.”

  “So what do I do differently?” Farnsworth asked, tying on a fresh apron.

  “Before you bake, think about why you’re making the rugelach,” Jillian said. “Then put your heart into every step.”

  Farnsworth blended the cream cheese and butter to make the dough before mixing in sugar, salt, vanilla extract, and flour.

  “Now close your eyes and think of your best memory with Miss Alexandra,” Jack said.

  “That’s easy. It was when …”

  “Don’t tell us,” Jillian said. “That’s private. You can pull it out of your memory box whenever you need it. File it under A—for Alexandra.”

  With each step of the recipe, Farnsworth found a new memory to add. Sometimes he chuckled as he stirred. Other times he wiped away tears. Near the end he doubled over in laughter.

  Farnsworth let Jack and Jillian pull the rugelach out of the oven.

  “You’re the experts, after all,” Farnsworth said.

  “These smell wonderful,” Jillian said.

  “Yes,” Jack agreed. “But how do they taste?”

  Once the rugelach cooled, Farnsworth arranged them on a large platter.

  “Go ahead,” Jack said. “Try one.”

  “Actually, I didn’t make this batch for myself,” Farnsworth said, carrying the tray over to Grandma Rita for the initial taste. “They’re my gift to all of you.”

  One by one, everyone had a piece … or two … or three. The reviews were unanimous.

  “Mmmm … this is …” Grandma Rita searched for the right word.

  “Indescribable?” Mr. Mermelstein asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “In fact, indescribably amazing!”

  The tray eventually made its way back to Jack, Jillian, and Farnsworth.

  “You go first,” Farnsworth urged.

  Jack and Jillian took small nibbles and scrunched up their faces.

  “Alas, it’s a bit dry,” Jillian said, imitating Farnsworth.

  “Not as light and flaky as I’d like, but a noble effort nonetheless,” Jack followed. “Making rugelach can be tricky, you know.”

  Farnsworth’s face drooped until he saw Jack and Jillian struggling to hold back giggles.

  “You got me. I guess I deserved that,” Farnsworth said.

  Then he ate the last piece on the tray—a lopsided crescent, the outcast of the batch—like the lonely student in the back of the class who’s ready to move to the front row.

  “It’s as fine as the rugelach you made,” Farnsworth said, licking chocolate from his fingers. “As wonderful as Miss Alexandra’s chocolate brownies. The prize money is yours.”

  Everyone let out a cheer.

  “And each school will receive a Culinary Education Center,” he continued. “It’s only fair.”

  “And the recipe?” Jack asked.

  “It will go in the cookbook as written,” Farnsworth said.

  “Not quite,” Jillian said.

  She took the recipe from the counter. Across the top she wrote, Joan Mermelstein’s Extraordinary Chocolate Rugelach. Then she added one final ingredient: Sprinkle in lots of love—at your own discretion.

  Chapter 31

  Six months later, Jack and Jillian, now seventh-graders, were the guests of honor at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for Sieberling School’s new Culinary Education Center. Because Jack’s videos had gone viral, Zombie Brunch’s only album had been rereleased. The band, older and grayer than when the album originally came out, played on the school’s front lawn as people arrived. Soon, everyone was answering each other’s questions with, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  For the celebration, parents, teachers, and students brought baked goods set up on tables near the entrance.

  Grandma Rita arrived carrying a blueberry pie.

  “Don’t worry,” Jillian told Jack. “We can now add pie making to Grandma’s list of skills. I barely helped.”

  “At least no emergency vehicles showed up,” said Mr. Mermelstein, setting down a plate of Chewy Raspberry Almond Cookies. “I know it’s not the beginning of the week, but these are good anytime.”

  Bruce, who wore a new pair of silver-and-sky-blue pants for the occasion, had finally come to the conclusion that baking wasn’t a waste of time after all. He held a tin of oatmeal cookies he baked that morning.

  “These don’t have anything unusual in them?” Principal Dobkins asked.

  Bruce smiled, revealing nothing but specks of raisins sticking to his teeth. “No, they’re cricket-free, but I think I actually miss the crunch.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Fineman brought a cherry-covered cheesecake.

  “From my Bubbe Leah’s recipe. I added the extra love, too,” Mrs. Fineman said.

  Liz brought a rhubarb pie made from the recipe of the first Bonanza winner, Edna Harberg, back in 1944.

  “I wore her apron as I baked. I borrowed it from the Farnsworth mansion. It still has the stain right near the pocket.”

  Jack guided a forkful of pie into his mouth.

  “Blissfully divine,” he said.

  Chad made a key lime pie with a graham cracker crust. Ms. Riedel ate two pieces.

  “I did zees from scratch,” he said, doing another poor imitation of Francois Furveau. “Mz. Riedel, you will have three minutes to duplicate zees recipe … now go!”

  Jack and Jillian baked the Mixed-Up Scrabble Babble Cake.

  “This was too good not to make again,” Jack said. “And we did it together.”

  In the weeks after the contest, Jack and Jillian continued their baking sessions, experimenting with new recipes and perfecting those in Jillian’s tattered recipe book. They talked about using some of the prize money to someday open a little pastry shop near the spot of Goldfarb Bakery.

>   “I’ve got it! We’ll call it the Chirping Cricket!” Jack said.

  “The chirping what?”

  “The Chirping Cricket. The name of our pastry shop.”

  “I like it,” Jillian said. “But first we have to make it out of seventh grade. Important math test tomorrow, remember?”

  “Gotta dream big. Gotta dream big.”

  After the ceremony, Liz approached Jack and Jillian holding a plate of chocolate rugelach and two wrapped gifts.

  “Mr. Farnsworth made this special for you,” she said. “He would have come today, but he didn’t want to take the spotlight away from you both.”

  Jack opened the wrapping paper on the box marked For Jack and pulled out a copy of the rare 1983 Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbook, the one with the typo that was never released to the public.

  He turned to the inside front cover, where there was a short note on top of the page.

  “That’s Farnsworth’s handwriting,” Jillian said. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

  Jack read out loud:

  Dear Jack,

  I recall from your application how much you wanted this book. I believe it is the only one in existence. I had all the others destroyed to erase the mistake. But as I’ve discovered, some mistakes can’t be eliminated—and I’ve certainly made my share of them, much bigger than a simple misspelling. Keep this book as my gift to you. May it help you learn from a man who has erred in so many ways, both large and small.

  Phineas Farnsworth III

  Inside the second box with Jillian’s name on it, she found an advance copy of the seventy-fifth edition of the Farnsworth Best of the Bonanza cookbook. As promised, a photo of Jillian’s mother’s chocolate rugelach filled the front cover. A note attached read:

  Dear Jillian,

  I do not expect you, or anyone else, to ever forgive me for my cruel behavior. An apology at this point is futile. Instead, I will say thank you and provide a brief explanation of why I am who I am. When Miss Alexandra, my beloved nanny, passed away, I was only ten years old. While my parents tended to the family business, she looked after me, baked for me, sang to me, and filled my heart with a gladness I have not felt again until only recently. Your chocolate rugelach brought her back to me—made me feel alive again. And for this I will be eternally grateful.