The Bake-Off

by Beth Kendrick

  “It’s educational, but is it machine washable?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “We baking, Mama,” Chloe announced with great pride.

  Brandon took a seat at the far end of kitchen table so he could keep one eye on the kids and the other on the hockey game on TV in the family room.

  Amy opened the refrigerator and pulled out two sticks of unsalted European butter. “This cake had better be a showstopper. It was Grammy’s last request. Her last last request.”

  Linnie nodded and grabbed the egg carton. “Plus, those pinochle players from the senior center are brutal food critics.”

  “No kidding. I have more performance anxiety about this than I did for the Delicious Duet finals. Speaking of which, have you seen this?” Amy grabbed the newspaper off the counter and flipped to the circular ads, which featured a full-color print ad of Tai and Ty feeding each other bites of turtle tart and laughing like honeymooners. Beneath the photo was the recipe for their “blue-ribbon” dessert.

  “Retch.” Linnie made a face. “Our modeling shots were far superior.”

  Amy read the caption aloud: “ ‘All the ingredients for family fun: love, laughter, and Delicious sugar.’ ”

  “They left out blackmail, attempted homicide, and emotional abuse.”

  “So what are we going to do to them, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I assume you have some diabolical scheme already in motion.” Amy crossed over to the pantry and scanned the shelves for flour, sugar, salt, vanilla, and raisins. “What’ll it be? Chemical warfare? Shut down their mainframe?”

  Linnie plunked herself down on a tall stool and yawned. “Do you even know what ‘shut down their mainframe’ means?”

  “No. That’s why this is your department.” Amy dumped the pile of dry goods onto the countertop.

  “The thing I keep coming back to is that Tai—the female Tai—has her hands full with that guy. Even though she won, she’s lost in every way that counts.”

  “What? The old Linnie would be calling for fire and brimstone and a plague of locusts. Someone’s gone soft.” The phone rang, and Amy hesitated. Friends and family members had been calling all week with condolences, but she’d let everything go to voice mail. She just wasn’t ready to talk about Grammy Syl yet. But when she saw the name on caller ID, she picked up.

  Who is it? Linnie mouthed.

  Amy held up the receiver, and from across the kitchen, Linnie could hear Rhodes barking.

  “Nana!” The twins glanced up from their mixing bowl.

  “Hi, Mom,” the two sisters said in unison.

  Amy wedged the receiver between her shoulder and ear and started drawing horns and fangs on Tai and Ty. “Yes, Linnie’s right here, actually. We’re making a cake for the memorial service tomorrow.” She paused, listening for a moment, then said, “Sure . . . no problem . . . The kids will be thrilled.”

  Chloe and Ben were clamoring to say hi to their nana, so Brandon took the phone and the children into another room, leaving the sisters alone in the kitchen.

  “So what’s going on?” Linnie asked.

  “Mom and Dad met with Grammy’s estate lawyer and checked into their hotel,” Amy reported. “They’re planning to drop by after dinner. Rhodes is going to be bunking at Chez Nichols for a few days—Mom says the hotel room is not to his liking. I’m guessing that’s code for ‘the other guests were complaining about the barking.’ ” She leaned down and gave Mooch a consoling scratch behind the ears. “Brace yourself, little buddy. You’re about to get a very high-maintenance roommate.”

  Linnie nodded. “Good. I haven’t seen them in over a year, and it’s time I stopped avoiding their calls and cringing every time they bring up my wasted potential. Grammy Syl was right—life is too short for this dysfunctional nonsense.”

  Amy saw her opening and pounced. “I’m glad to hear you say that, because next week, I’m pricing plane tickets for Rhodes’s UDX celebration in May. Want to fly down with us?”

  Her sister started flipping through the newspaper on the kitchen island. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “Don’t give me that. It’s a family celebration in honor of their favorite child.”

  Linnie rolled her eyes. “It’s a dog’s graduation party.”

  “Yeah, and it’s going to be a very swanky soiree, so you’d better look sharp. Remind me to take you shopping next time we’re in New York. Oh, and Mom asked me if we could come a day early and make a special cake for Rhodes and his bichon frise girlfriend from the dog park.”

  “What kind of cake?”

  “She said she found a recipe online involving dog food and carob.” Amy pondered this new culinary challenge. “We could bake a sheet cake and frost it up like a diploma, with a bunch of Snausages where the gold seal should go. It’ll be a great addition to my food styling portfolio.”

  Linnie started to look overwhelmed. “I don’t know, Amy. I’m really not a dog person. All the jumping, the slobbering . . .”

  “Have no fear.” Amy grinned. “We’ll give you one glass of champagne at the beginning of the ceremony, and you won’t remember a thing. You might even have fun. Besides . . .” She paused for effect. “It’s what Grammy Syl would want.”

  “Oh no. I’m going to get Grammy Syl guilt trips from beyond the grave?”

  “It’s my job as the older sister to keep the legacy alive.”

  Linnie yawned again. “Do I have time for a quick nap?”

  “You slept all the way here on the train.” Amy tsk-tsked. “Were you and Cam up all night again?”

  At the mere mention of Cam, Linnie went misty-eyed and moony. “You know, I never understood the appeal of sweets before, but there’s something about whipped cream on washboard abs. I’ll never turn away a dessert menu again.”

  “If you guys don’t learn to pace yourselves, you’re both going to die of sleep deprivation.”

  “I’m going have more trouble making it to the eight-thirty lectures than the freshmen who just turned eighteen. Speaking of which, I got my SAT scores on Friday.”

  “And?”

  “Ninety-eighth percentile for my overall score. I screwed up the writing portion.”

  “Only you would consider scoring in the ninety-eighth percentile ‘screwing up.’ ”

  “That’s exactly what Cam said. Anyway, I have appointments to talk to admissions counselors at NYU, Barnard, and Columbia next week.”

  “Good for you.” Amy gave her sister a little golf clap. “I knew you’d go back and finish college one day.”

  “Oh, college is only the beginning. I’m back on the MD track. I’m not stopping until I become a neurosurgeon.”

  Amy blinked. “But isn’t becoming a neurosurgeon going to require a lot of training? Like, a lot?”

  “Well, I have to finish college, then go through med school, residency, and fellowship.” Linnie ticked off the requirements on her fingers. “So about sixteen years total. That’s for a normal person, though. I figure between large class loads, summer semesters, and previous credits, I can shave off a few years. But yes, I’ll be over forty by the time I’m finished. Turns out, I’m going to be a very late bloomer.”

  Amy hesitated, not wanting to offend her sister. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Considering what happened the last time you started a premed program?”

  Linnie’s gaze sharpened with intensity. “Last time I went to college, I did it because everyone else wanted me to. This time, I’m doing it for me. An MD is more than an intellectual status symbol to me now. After what happened to Grammy Syl . . . If I had been her surgeon, I would’ve saved her. Trust and believe.”

  “Well, you’ve already got the God complex down, so you’re off to a good start.” Amy pulled an apron over her head and turned around so Linnie could tie up the back. “And if anyone has the smarts to make it through med school, it’s you.”

  “Just as important as smarts, I’ve got steady ha
nds. All those years at the blackjack table are going to translate to virtuosity in the OR.”

  “College and medical school,” Amy mused. “You’re looking at a whole lot of tuition.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that, and I can always work weekends at the blackjack tables in Atlantic City.” Linnie suddenly sounded too casual, almost cagey. “I could make decent tip money if I act cheerful and friendly and, you know, pretend to be you. Plus, Kyle swears he’s going to pay me back a hundred dollars a month for the next thirty-three years.”

  “Uh-huh.” Amy could tell there was a but coming.

  “But I was doing some research last night, and it turns out there’s a gingerbread house competition in Virginia every Christmas, and the winner gets fifty grand.”

  Amy backed away from the table. “No.”

  “Then there’s the annual chicken cook-off in Chicago every summer for a hundred thousand dollars, and a cookie challenge in Texas worth almost a quarter of a million.”

  “Linnie. We’re pie pariahs. We’re the new Tai and Ty.”

  “So what? We can’t go back to Delicious Duet, but we’re still legally eligible for other competitions. It’s not like the Olympics; there’s no International Baking Federation to ban us for life. Let everyone gossip. Let them judge us. You and I both know that our szarlotka was good enough to win. All we have to do is win one big competition a year. I could pay my tuition; you could buy Brandon a dental practice.”

  Amy kept shaking her head, even though she felt her resolve weakening. “Didn’t you learn anything from the fiasco we just went through?”

  “Yes, I learned everything I need to know to make sure we win the next one.” Linnie’s brown eyes sparkled. “Come on, Amy. We can do it. You know we can. Let’s look right now—what kind of cookie recipes did Grammy have stashed away?”

  “You’re a bad influence.”

  “A bad influence who’s going to help you put your kids through college with chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “Hang on; let me get the box.” Grammy had brought over her recipe box when they embarked on their multigenerational baking marathon a few weeks ago. “These are more valuable than any jewelry,” Grammy had told them, holding the battered tin box as if it were a gem-studded gold coffer. “All of these recipes have also been passed on from my grandmother and her grandmother.”

  Amy flipped through the yellowed, dog-eared index cards. “We need to transcribe these and laminate the originals,” she said.

  “They’re going to disintegrate if we keep handling them.”

  “Didn’t she organize these at all?” Linnie peered over Amy’s shoulder. “At least she should have alphabetized them, or grouped them by main course versus dessert.”

  “Wait, we definitely need this one.” Amy located the card labeled Swiateczny. When she tried to extract it, the card remained lodged in the box. “It’s stuck.”

  “Well, don’t rip it,” Linnie cautioned. “If we’re careful, we can probably separate it from whatever card it’s stuck to.”

  At that moment, the card came loose, along with a small bundle of tissue paper.

  “What the hell?” Amy and Linnie unwrapped the tissue to reveal the platinum-and-diamond brooch, along with the claim ticket from the pawnshop and a note in Grammy Syl’s feminine script:

  L—

  Your hands are fast, but my eyes are faster. You can’t fool a fooler, darling.

  XX, Grammy

  P.S. Add two teaspoons of vanilla to the szarlotka filling.

  “She knew,” Linnie breathed. “She must have seen the claim ticket the morning we came back from the drunk tank.”

  “She always did love to have the last word.” Amy picked up the brooch and held it up for inspection. The intricate grooves carved into the platinum were a bit grimy, but the cognac diamonds glittered with an inner fire. “But how’d she get this back?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she wired the pawnbroker the money and had him send it to her. Maybe she had a crony in Vegas to do her bidding. The real question is, If she knew about all this the whole time, and she knew she was getting the brooch back, why did she let us fly to Vegas and then grovel for forgiveness in her kitchen? To torture us? To teach us a lesson?”

  “To bring us together,” Amy said softly.

  “See? I rest my case. She wanted us to keep baking as a team. Her recipes are our inheritance, and this Christmas cake is a masterpiece. It’s just selfish not to share it with the world.” Linnie picked up the canister of raisins and rolled it between her palms. “Although I’ve been thinking. I know that Grammy used raisins soaked in hot water, but they might taste even better if we mix in a little bourbon.”

  “I don’t know.” Amy nibbled her lip. “Should we really be tampering with perfection?”

  “Nothing’s so perfect I can’t improve it just a little bit.”

  “Spoken like a future neurosurgeon.”

  “Hey, people can say a lot of things about the pair of us, but they can no longer claim we can’t bake. This cake is going to taste delicious, thanks to me; it’s going to look exquisite, thanks to you; and it’s going to keep Grammy right here with us while we figure out what comes next.” Linnie spooned raisins onto the food scale and did the mental conversion from cups to ounces in her head. “We’re Bialek girls. We have a reputation to uphold.”

  “A reputation for starting scandals, breaking rules, and making scenes.” Amy laughed. “At least we’re not boring.”

  “Exactly. We stick together and get things done. And if anyone else has a problem with that . . .”

  Amy set the oven to three fifty, affixed Grammy’s antique brooch to her apron, and finished Linnie’s sentence for her. “Let them eat cake.”

  Grammy Syl’s Christmas Eve Cake

  ANNOTATED BY LINNIE BIALEK

  SUGGESTED SOUND TRACK: Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite,

  Bing Crosby’s White Christmas

  Ingredients:

  ½ cup golden raisins

  ½ cup dried cranberries

  Boiling water

  ½ cup Granny Smith apple, peeled and diced

  ½ cup grated orange peel

  ¾ cup finely chopped walnuts

  2 ½ cups flour (set aside 2 tablespoons of this)

  2 tablespoons baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 cups powdered sugar

  5 eggs

  1 cup butter, softened to room temperature

  1 tablespoon grated lemon peel

  2 teaspoons vanilla

  3 tablespoons vodka, plus an extra splash for the hot water

  Instructions:

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Butter and flour a glass baking pan, 9 x 13 inches.

  Prep the fruit filling

  Combine the golden raisins and dried cranberries in a bowl. Bring water to a boil and submerge the dried fruit. Spike the hot water with vodka or brandy as desired.

  Peel and cut up the apple into quarter-inch cubes, then grate the orange and lemon peel. Better yet, convince your baking partner to do all this while you put on some festive holiday music.

  Set aside 2 tablespoons of flour.

  After the dried fruit plumps up, drain the mixture.

  Combine the raisins, cranberries, chopped walnuts, apple pieces, and grated orange peel with the 2 tablespoons of flour. Set aside the lemon peel for the cake batter.

  Make the cake batter

  Sift together the remaining flour, salt, and baking powder.

  Attempt to stop your baking partner from changing the music to Run-DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis.”

  Using a hand mixer or stand mixer, beat together the eggs and powdered sugar on high speed for 2 minutes.

  Using a stand mixer, beat together the butter, lemon peel, and vanilla.

  Add the vodka to the butter mixture and resume mixing.

  Slow down the mixer to stirring speed and pour in the egg mixture.

  Stop the mixer and add the flour
mixture at three to four intervals, mixing thoroughly between additions. (Mix just enough to combine all ingredients—do not overmix. Or else.)

  Using a silicone spatula or large spoon, fold in the fruit filling, again mixing just enough to combine.

  Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, or until sides and top are golden brown and an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

  Try to dissuade your niece and nephew from changing music to “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.” Give up, give in, and sing along at the top of your lungs.

  After removing the cake from the oven, allow it to cool in the pan for 10–12 minutes. Run a knife edge between the cake edge and the pan; then turn the cake onto a wire rack and allow to finish cooling.

  Once cake has cooled completely, store in an airtight container for 24–48 hours before serving. This allows the flavors to “muddle and mellow” (Grammy Syl’s words, not mine) into rich, buttery perfection.

  Serve with whipped cream or ice cream. Happy holidays!

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to . . .

  Susan Miller, Confectionista extraordinaire, who generously shared tales from the trenches of cooking competitions.

  Pastry goddess Carol Blonder, who introduced me to the “Zen sport” of rolling pastry dough and gave me the courage to attempt piecrust from scratch.

  Tai Burkholder, who said, “I’d be thrilled if you named a character after me! It could even be a villain!” Um, thank you and I’m sorry. I owe you a Costco-size pallet of Crystal Light.