Fall Into Love

by Melody Anne

  “Have fun—” She’s gone before I can finish. I dump the mixing bowl over on the floured prep table and form the phyllo dough into a mound.

  There are forty of us participating in this year’s Upper Crust competition, each working furiously. Well, everyone except for the guy in the kitchen beside me. He’s wearing an actual chef’s jacket with his name embroidered above the breast pocket. Steve Ayers, it reads in blue thread. He’s garnered the attention of half of the Junior League volunteers, including Bernice Rimes, who is carrying on like a girl with a playground crush, batting her eyelashes and rambling on with those goldfish lips of hers. The guy, Steve, is offering the ladies bites of chocolate and regaling them with stories of his culinary successes. He’s acting as though he’s a celebrity chef rather than a competitor. Maybe he should be more concerned with baking his chocolate stout cake than with entertaining if he intends on finishing in the allotted time.

  Bernice must catch me staring at her because she barrels over to me, a pinched expression on her face. Her overly processed yellow hair doesn’t budge with the movements. Even the curls, which should sway, stay put. It reminds me of the two-dollar cranberry sauce that plops out of the can still shaped like the can, with the ridges and everything.

  “I heard Nick rejected you,” she says, her southern accent dragging out the words. “You know, everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Is that so?” I say, kneading the dough.

  “Sure is,” she says. Bernice is waiting to get a rise out of me. “Is it true you burst into tears?”

  “That’s the rumor going around?” I say as I lift the dough and dust more flour underneath.

  “Oh no. The rumor is much worse. I was being polite.”

  Of course she was. “I’ve been too busy worrying about my sick father to cry over something like that.” Truth be told, I did cry to Wes and Annabelle about what happened with Nick, but I’m not about to admit that to Bernice or give her the satisfaction. “Now can you go back to your pathetic attempts at flirting with Steve over there so I can do something productive?”

  She gapes at me. I fight the urge to squeeze her cheeks together to make her goldfish lips pucker even more. With a scowl, Bernice turns on her heel and stalks away. Finally, some peace and quiet.

  My back aches as I continue to knead the phyllo dough. I sprinkle more flour on the prep table, then press the dough with the heel of my hand, fold it over, and rotate it twenty-five degrees. Ordinarily I’d let the hook attachment on the stand mixer knead the dough for me to save time, but the competition guidelines state that all items in the recipe must be made on site and without the aid of special cooking equipment unless otherwise authorized. Since I’m supposed to be creating my mother’s summer peach cobbler, which only requires a rubber spatula and two large bowls, I couldn’t exactly ask Sullivan Grace for permission to bring in a stand mixer without drawing attention to myself.

  After another few minutes of kneading, I shape the dough into a ball, brush it with vegetable oil, wrap it in plastic wrap, and leave it on the table to rest. While the phyllo dough proofs, I prepare the sweet cheese and peach mixture, adding in pomegranate seeds at the last minute.

  “Your entry is looking divine, sugar. Like something you might find at one of those discount grocery stores,” says the older woman in the station next to me. Her tone is sweet and warm, but her upturned nose and disapproving features betray her.

  She’s been cutting butter into flour with a fork for the past ten minutes, throwing away at least as many batches. Good thing she brought plenty of extra ingredients. I want to tell her that the butter isn’t cold enough because she left it on the table instead of in the minirefrigerator, and the mixture should resemble split peas not cheese puffs, but I don’t think my father would approve of me fraternizing with the enemy.

  I arrange my face into a smile, and channeling Sullivan Grace, say in a phony voice, “Well, bless your heart, aren’t you so nice? I wouldn’t want you to feel intimidated, so here’s a helpful hint. Maybe consider cheating next time. Bad pies in a box are just as effective and significantly less effort than you’re exerting. That’s a little tidbit for you to noodle on.”

  The woman mutters something under her breath and returns to destroying her piecrust. She should’ve taken my advice.

  I unwrap the dough and separate it into chunks. It should rest more, but rolling out the dough into layers is going to consume a large portion of my time and patience. I grab a French rolling pin and get moving, flattening and stretching until the sheets are the thickness of card stock. Before long, all the dough is used up. Several of the sheets have rips in them, but those can be hidden. I only need one perfect layer for the top. I start assembling, placing the sweet cheese and peach mixture on the bottom of a baking dish and then topping with the phyllo dough, generously buttering between each sheet.

  As I’m coating the final layer with butter, Annabelle rushes up to me. “Better get that in the oven pronto. Sullivan Grace is on her way over. One peek at that,” she says, waving at my deconstructed strudel, “and she’ll feed you to the Dumpster rats out back.”

  “I’m hurrying. I’m hurrying,” I say, picking up the dish and sliding it onto the middle rack. I kick the oven door shut behind me, but I lose my balance in the process and collide with the prep table. Flour billows in my face. I sneeze.

  “Lillie, dear, why are you wiggling your nose like that?” Sullivan Grace taps one of her low-heeled shoes on the carpet.

  I brush off my apron. “Why, is that considered unattractive?”

  “Yes. Very,” she says, smoothing her already smooth navy couture dress. The rose-gold bangles adorning her forearm wink under the ballroom lights. “Now, what is the status of the cobbler?”

  “Everything’s in order,” I say with a thumbs-up, because I know it will irritate her, even if she doesn’t show it. Sullivan Grace’s always so composed, but it’s like my father said, someone has to keep her on her toes.

  Annabelle snorts.

  “Good, good,” Sullivan Grace says. Then she stands there, staring at me expectantly. I stare dumbly back. Finally with a flick of her wrist, she says, “Well, stop dillydallying, dear. You don’t have all day.”

  “I’m not,” I say, but then I remember she thinks I’m submitting my mother’s peach cobbler for judging, which takes significantly less time to prep and bake than the strudel. I wouldn’t need to start making it until an hour before the competition ends. So I have no real choice but to play along. “I was about to—”

  “Uh, Lillie?” Annabelle interrupts.

  I look at her. There’s a crease between her brows. “Yeah?”

  “The oven is smoking.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  RIBBONS OF SMOKE are curling out around the oven door.

  Please don’t be ruined, I pray, then run over and turn on the oven light. I peer through the window. Flames are licking up from the bottom and around the sides of the strudel. Crap. This has never—and I mean never—happened to me before. Did I preheat too early? Set the temperature too high?

  Panic pulses through me. I turn off the oven, allow the fire to die out, and slowly open the door. A blast of smoke shoots out. Coughing, my eyes burning and watery, I try to wave it away but the oven keeps exhaling plumes of smoke. I shove on some mitts, stick my hands into the inferno, praying my dress doesn’t catch a lingering spark, and yank out the dish, hurling it onto the stovetop. The deconstructed strudel is burned but recognizable. Maybe Sullivan Grace won’t notice it’s not my mother’s peach cobbler.

  No such luck.

  “I’m disappointed in you, dear,” she says as wisps of smoke continue to rise. Shaking her head, she walks away, tugging the pearls around her neck.

  An audience has gathered around me now, comprised of a handful of other challengers and several judges, who have been wandering around the ballroom and observing since the competition started.

  One of the judges, an instructor at Le Cordon Bleu—at leas
t according to his chef’s jacket—inspects inside the oven. He removes a palmful of ashes and a small scrap of paper with burned edges. I recognize the handwriting on it as mine. Somehow my recipe notes went into the oven with the strudel and caught fire. Frustration sweeps through me. How could I sabotage myself like that? Why wasn’t I more careful? I was in such a hurry to get the strudel into the oven I didn’t bother to check that there wasn’t anything stuck to the baking dish.

  “Well, this is unfortunate,” the judge says, wiping his hands together over the trash. “I hope you have a backup plan.”

  A fellow competitor, a woman about my age with sucked-in cheeks and glasses that are probably supposed to be fashionable but instead distort her eyes, pokes at the blackened phyllo dough. “Perhaps she just can’t cook and should give up now,” the woman says, wrinkling her nose.

  “Or maybe the oven had heartburn and thought burping flames would solve the problem,” I deadpan, pulling off the mitts and tucking them into my apron pockets.

  Some people laugh, while others have blank stares on their faces. The bug-eyed competitor glares at me. Wannabe celebrity chef Steve Ayers is still too busy stroking his ego to notice the commotion happening around him, but the woman in the station on the other side of me has a smile plastered on her face. I suppose I deserve that.

  Another judge rests a hand on my shoulder. I recognize her as the food critic from The Dallas Morning News. “Per Upper Crust guidelines, you won’t be granted extended time or provided additional ingredients. You’ll need to make do with what you have, which includes using the oven designated for you specifically.”

  I nod, contemplating my options, which at this point are limited.

  “All right, people. Show’s over,” Annabelle says with a clap of her hands. “Quit gawking.”

  The crowd disperses, Annabelle trailing behind like a shepherd herding a flock of baffled sheep. I chuck the strudel, dish and everything, in the trash, wondering how I’m going to fix this. The whole thing would be hilarious if I wasn’t so screwed. I spread my hands flat on the prep table and press my fingers into the top, forcing all the frustration out of my body and into the wood.

  Think, think, think.

  Resigned, I sift through the minifridge and storage bins, removing the ingredients for my mother’s peach cobbler. There isn’t enough time to make another batch of phyllo dough, and my pride will never recover if I don’t submit something to the judges for consideration. Not to mention my father will murder me.

  I spot my mother’s handwritten recipe card wedged between the baking powder and cornstarch. It’s not like I need it for reference; the five steps have been branded on my brain like a kitschy commercial jingle since I found the card in my father’s kitchen all those years ago. Still, I read them anyway. A lump forms in my throat.

  As I scan the ingredient list and instructions, I notice the recipe calls for yellow peaches instead of white and a batter topping rather than a drop-biscuit. I frown.

  It’s as if my head has been clogged all this time and it’s finally cleared. I understand what everyone’s been trying to tell me.

  None of this has been about my mother.

  It’s been about me.

  The peach cobbler may have started out as my mother’s recipe, but somewhere along the way, it became my recipe, made special with my own personal touches like so many other recipes that make up the diner’s menu and daily Blue Plate Specials. With each recipe, I removed a little something here or added a little something there, tweaking the original until I created a dish uniquely mine.

  My father’s right. My mother lives in me, but she’s only a small part of who I am, not all that I am. Her actions don’t define me, they never have. It’s not her blood that flows through the Spoons. It’s mine and my father’s and every other person who crosses its threshold, keeping it breathing and thriving. My mother has no presence there anymore.

  Something unlocks inside me, a truth I’ve denied for far too long. My heart seems to know my decision before it crystallizes in my head.

  I’m taking over the diner. It’s a strong thought, beating in rhythm with my heart. “I’m taking over the diner,” I say aloud. There’s an edge of urgency in my voice. I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.

  A microphone squeals, startling me. Sullivan Grace’s voice comes through the speakers set up around the ballroom. “Challengers, you have one hour remaining until entries are due to the judges. Good luck.”

  All at once, the desire to win surges up again. I spring into action, slicing the remaining thawed, flash-frozen white peaches, and combining them with sugar, cornstarch, and cinnamon in a glass bowl. While the peaches release their juices to form a syrup, I whip together the biscuit dough and melt butter in a large cast-iron skillet I smuggled from the diner, tossing in the peach mixture and letting it cook for a bit. I’m taking over the diner, I think again, even stronger than before. It’s a chant, spurring me on as I dollop spoonfuls of biscuit dough over the fruit so it resembles a “cobbled” effect. I put it in the oven, crossing my fingers that there isn’t another episode that necessitates calling the fire department.

  Normally I have the self-control of an obsessive health nut, but right now I feel like a fad dieter faced with a room overflowing with cheeseburgers, because I can’t help cracking open the oven door and peeking at the cobbler while it bakes. If my father were here, he’d scold me.

  I switch to cleaning my station. As I’m organizing the dry ingredients in the storage bins, I catch a glimpse of Margaret entering the ballroom, gold envelopes and stacks of papers in hand. She’s been avoiding me since I arrived this morning, not that I blame her. Our eyes meet. There’s none of the usual hardness in them, nor is there any smugness on her face. Or maybe I’m seeing Margaret differently now, as she really is: someone of worth. Someone important to Nick. Someone he maybe even loved.

  I nod at her, but she cuts her eyes away. Margaret walks over to the judges’ table, placing an envelope and a stack of what I assume are the ballot cards at each spot. Challengers can submit an entry in one of six categories—cookies, cakes and cupcakes, brownies and bars, chocolate, fruit desserts, and pies. The winner of each category will be eligible for best in show.

  “Eight minutes,” Annabelle’s voice rings out as the judges settle in their seats. A flurry of activity erupts around them as competitors scramble to put the final touches on their dishes. Lucky for me, part of the charm of cobbler is the rustic way it’s displayed—straight from the oven in a cast-iron skillet—so all I can do is wait for the timer to ding. Some people may finish with a scoop of vanilla-bean ice cream or a drizzle of heavy cream at the end, but in my universe serving cobbler with anything other than a fork and a bib is a sacrilege.

  I notice the woman next to me has abandoned the pie idea and is instead frosting a single-layer Hummingbird Cake. To my surprise, it actually smells edible, bordering on tasty. I wonder if the woman will be deemed ineligible for changing her entry or if Sullivan Grace’s been lying to me this whole time.

  Somehow Steve Ayers has managed to complete the chocolate stout cake. Now he’s pouring Double Brown Stout from Dallas’s own Deep Ellum Brewing Company into pint glasses—one for each judge, it seems—and adding a scoop of ice cream for a grown-up float. As much as I hate to admit it, the whole presentation looks so professional it could grace the glossy pages of a food magazine. Maybe he really is some kind of celebrity chef.

  For a moment, my confidence wavers. I underestimated my fellow competitors’ skill level and the seriousness in which they’d approach the Upper Crust.

  The timer dings. I pull on some mitts and take the cobbler out of the oven. The peach juices, thick and bubbling, threaten to escape the skillet, and the drop biscuits are golden brown. Perfection. The smell alone is enough to declare me the winner. The worry squeezing my chest relaxes. I grate some nutmeg over the top as a horn sounds.

  “Time’s up, time’s up. Utensils down, everybody. Ute
nsils down!” I guess it’s Bernice’s turn at the microphone.

  Around the ballroom, people step away from their dishes with their hands raised, though one guy continues working. Sullivan Grace strides over to him, still a picture of poise. The guy is so focused on cutting a pan of Hello Dolly bars into squares he doesn’t see her standing there. Sullivan Grace marks something on a piece of paper and sets it on the prep table in front of him. He glances at it, then finally at Sullivan Grace. With pleading eyes, he says something to Sullivan Grace, but she shakes her head in that admonishing way of hers. I bet he’s been disqualified, which is unfortunate for him because those Hello Dolly bars look divine. As if in confirmation, the guy unties his apron and throws it in Sullivan Grace’s face, then storms out of the ballroom. The news crew captures the whole thing on camera. I’ve never seen Sullivan Grace appear so shocked.

  Bernice rattles instructions into the microphone. Challengers are to deposit their dishes in Dessert Heaven, a small room off the ballroom lined with tables designated for each category. The fruit desserts will be judged first. Thank goodness. While cobbler is delicious at room temperature, it’s best enjoyed warm.

  As I enter Dessert Heaven, I notice each table has roughly an equal number of dishes. Placing the skillet on a hot pad, I scope out the competition. There’s traditional apple pie, mint brownies, chocolate turtle cheesecake, violet macarons, key lime pie, cherry turnovers, and even snickerdoodles. Still, none compare to my peach cobbler. Best in show is mine to win.

  Junior League volunteers sweep into the room, each grabbing a fruit dessert. I follow behind the girl carrying my skillet. The scent of cinnamon and ripe peaches floats past my nose. My stomach gurgles. The volunteers deliver the entries—a loganberry tart, a banana trifle, pear clafouti, a plum crumble, mini citrus pavlovas, a triple-berry crisp, and my peach cobbler—to the judges and divvy out small, individual portions of each. Without hesitating, the judges pick up a fork in one hand and a pen in the other. My eyes are glued on them as they take their first bites and scribble something on the ballot cards. Their expressions betray nothing. The atmosphere in the ballroom feels tense.