Cake and Confessions

by Laurel Remington

  “I like it,” Gretchen says. “If you think you can pull it off.”

  “And what about the menu?” Alison asks.

  “I know you’ve all be collecting recipes,” I say. “We could put something together, and I’ll give it to Annie at the TV station. She can show it to Mom. That’s what the caterers would do, I think.”

  “I could do the starters,” Fraser says. “Something with smoked salmon. I’ve been to all my cousins’ weddings, and they always have that.”

  “Smoked salmon is good,” Naya says. “But we should probably have a theme. It’s a summer wedding, isn’t it?”

  I take a deep breath and drop the bomb. “Actually, it’s early summer. It’s supposed to happen in eight weeks!”

  “Eight weeks!” Naya looks shocked. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

  Gretchen frowns. “We’d better get on it, then. Violet, do you have your notebook?”

  Everybody starts talking at once. If Mom did happen to be listening from our kitchen, the cat would be out of the bag already.

  “Shh,” I say, pointing at the hole in the wall. “We need to keep it secret. Violet, do you want to write down everyone’s suggestions?”

  “Sure.” She opens her little book to a blank page and sharpens a pencil. “Go ahead.”

  “What about bite-sized strawberry tarts with crème fraîche?” Alison suggests immediately. “The strawberries will be in season in June.”

  “What about going with a color theme?” Violet says. “Like, we could do a salad with edible flowers and shaved Parmesan. I also found a recipe for lavender salad cream.”

  “Or we could do it by cuisine,” Naya says. “French or Italian. Or sushi rolls—that’s a big thing at weddings, I think.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Violet says. “And what about those volley-something-or-other things that your mom wanted? The fancy sausage rolls?”

  “Vol-au-vents!” I say.

  “That’s it!”

  Again, everyone starts talking at once. There are so many ideas floating around, but no rhyme or reason to anything. The phrase “too many cooks spoil the broth” pops into my head.

  Eventually, I tap the table. “Okay, that’s great, everyone,” I say loudly. “That’s given us lots to think about. But—”

  “Did you see this?” I look up at Nick, who’s standing by the counter. In front of him is The Little Cook, the special handwritten recipe book that we use. I’ve read the whole book over and over, cover to cover. But now Nick is pointing to a page that I swear I’ve never seen before. Maybe the pages were stuck together, or maybe there’s just something a little strange that goes on sometimes in Rosemary’s kitchen.

  “It’s a menu for a ‘Summer Fête,’” he says.

  “Really? You mean like a summer fair?”

  “Or a party, I think.” Nick hands Violet the book, and she passes it down the table to me.

  In my hands, the little book seems warm, like a loaf of bread that’s come out of the oven. I read over the menu, handwritten with little flowers drawn down the side, and a colored-pencil sketch of some children dancing around a maypole. Then I pass the book back down the table so that everyone can see. There’s a new energy in the air, a new spark to our meeting.

  Violet looks at me, her eyes shining. She’s aware of it too. For the first time in a while, it’s like I can’t stop smiling.

  “It’s perfect,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  “A Summer Fête”

  Drinks

  Sparkling raspberry and lavender lemonade

  Miniature vanilla and strawberry milkshakes

  First Course

  Smoked salmon and cream cheese pancakes

  Pea and mint soup with cream garnish (v)

  Second Course

  Organic herb-roasted chicken with wild mushrooms—or—

  Medallions of fillet steak in peppercorn sauce—or—

  Spring vegetable risotto (v)

  with garlic and herb potatoes and fresh vegetables

  Dessert

  Assorted tea biscuits

  Salted caramel and dark chocolate truffles

  Wedding cake

  Chapter 18

  Our New Secret

  “Do you think we could keep it a secret? From…you know…Mom?” While the others are still chatting about the menu, I’ve given Assistant Annie a quick call. Since Mom’s allowing the TV station to be in charge of the catering, there’s no point in getting excited over our menu unless they’re on board.

  “I think it sounds like a fantastic idea,” Assistant Annie says. “Of course, I’ll need to get it signed off with my boss—and you’re sure you can really do it?”

  I look down the length of Rosemary’s kitchen. Gretchen has grabbed an armload of cookbooks from the shelf and is passing them out. The Little Cook didn’t have recipes for all the things on the menu, but I’m willing to bet that Rosemary Simpson marked them in her other cookbooks. Once we find the recipes, we’ll have to practice each of the dishes—make sure we know exactly what we’re doing. Then we can decide if we want to make some changes to add our own twist to the recipes—like vol-au-vents. It’s all going to take time and a lot of effort.

  “I know we can,” I say. Because now that the Secret Cooking Club is on the case, I feel like things are right back on track.

  * * *

  I end the call and return to my friends. “It’s a thumbs-up!” I say.

  “Great,” Gretchen says, barely looking up from the recipe book she’s flipping through.

  “I’ve found two of the recipes,” Naya says, looking excited. “For the salted caramel truffles and the spring vegetable risotto.” She skims the recipe. “It looks like it’s some special kind of rice with vegetables.”

  “Cool,” Nick says. He looks over at me. “Should I try making it? We can have it for dinner.”

  Violet and I glance at each other. I’m not sure that rice with vegetables sounds particularly appetizing, but one thing I’ve learned since starting the Secret Cooking Club is to be brave and try new things. Most of the time—when we’re using our special recipes, at least—even things that don’t sound too good on paper turn out to be delicious.

  “I’ll help,” Alison says. The two of them get up and go over to the larder where the fresh vegetables are stored.

  “Should we try the truffles?” I look at Violet. Her head turns in Fraser’s direction. “Fraser, do you want to help?” I ask.

  “Um, sure.” He gets up from the table. I’m hoping that Violet doesn’t notice his quick glance at Alison.

  “Great,” I say.

  “I’ll keep looking for the recipes,” Naya says. “Then maybe we can whip up some muffins for school?” She glances at Gretchen. “Okay?”

  “Sure,” Gretchen says. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  With everything agreed, I get up from the table, determined to “keep out of the way” of Violet and Fraser. But Violet seems to be overcome by an attack of shyness. “Um, what should I do?” she asks.

  “You and Fraser melt the caster sugar,” I direct. I open the cupboard and hand her the packet of sugar.

  “Okay, Fraser, can you get the pan out?”

  Leaving the two of them to work, I find the other ingredients and set them out. She and Fraser seem a little awkward together. He measures out the sugar while Violet heats the pan. Once he tips it in, she swirls the hot sugar toward the middle so that it dissolves evenly. I bring her some vanilla, staring into the pan as the mixture gradually turns a dark, golden-brown color.

  Violet measures out the vanilla and sea salt and tips them in. “I’m just so glad you’re back,” she says to me. “I missed this. I mean, it’s like old times, isn’t it?”

  I nod, knowing what she means. At the beginning, it was j
ust her and me, trying to puzzle our way through the lists of ingredients and the many steps of instructions. We made cinnamon scones, and then caramel flapjacks. Those went well, so we got more confident and tried more complicated things like banoffee pie. Then, we learned to cook real food—eggs, meat, vegetables. Once, we even did a whole four-course dinner.

  “Are you ready for the brown sugar and cream?” Fraser steps over, and I move away to get some chilled butter out of the fridge.

  “It smells so good,” I hear Violet say.

  “Yeah,” Fraser says.

  I bring over the butter and then go to break up the dark chocolate into a bowl. Naya and Gretchen are laughing as they make the muffins—somehow Naya has managed to get her black hair completely dusted with flour like an old-fashioned powdered wig. I feel a little stab of pride that all these people who might never have known each other, and who probably wouldn’t have been friends, have come together here in this very special kitchen.

  When Violet and Fraser have added the butter and the rest of the cream, I pour the mixture over the dark chocolate. It looks and smells heavenly. I take the bowl to the fridge to cool.

  Nick and Alison have finished chopping the vegetables and are preparing to cook the rice.

  I go back to the table, noticing that Gretchen and Naya have used up nearly half a pack of yellow Post-its marking pages in the various cookbooks. Suddenly, I have an attack of nerves. This is by far the biggest project the Secret Cooking Club has taken on since our first online bake-a-thon where we raised money for a charity for the elderly.

  Gretchen sees me standing there and comes over. “It’s going to be a big job,” she says, like she’s reading my mind.

  I keep my voice low. “Do you think we’re up to it?”

  She looks around at all the others: stirring, chopping, washing up; laughing, chatting, and working together.

  “I hope so,” she says. We both smile.

  The Secret Cooking Club

  April 25: Special Bulletin

  Help! I’m looking for a few volunteers to come and help us with a very special project. Details and venue to follow. I promise, there will be lots of great food for everyone to enjoy.

  The Little Cook xx

  Chapter 19

  Another “Truth”

  Later that evening, I hit post and the bulletin is posted to the website. I don’t know for sure that it will work, but other Secret Cooking Club “flash mobs” have worked before, according to the stories that other members have posted on the website. I’m not quite sure how the TV station is going to handle a huge group of kids cooking together in their studio, but I do know that we’ll need all the help we can get, and it will be fun for as many members as possible of the cyber club to be involved. At least there will be plenty of grown-ups around to “supervise” us. I just hope I can count on Assistant Annie to make it all happen.

  I close the blog and pop a truffle into my mouth, savoring the soft, oozy caramel. Dusted in cocoa powder with a tiny crystallized violet on top, the truffles turned out well, if a little too big. That’s the thing I’ve discovered about cooking—it always helps to try a recipe more than once because sometimes things don’t go according to plan. Just like life, I guess.

  I check out some of the stories and photos that have been posted recently on the blog. It’s incredible how many creative, beautiful, and fun things people have made. There’s a volcano cake with a river of red licorice spewing out like lava—made by a ten-year-old boy member named Thomas. There’s a batch of sparkly butterfly fairy cakes that a thirteen-year-old made for her little sister’s birthday. Another girl posted a homemade pizza with fresh tomato sauce and sausage, absolutely dripping with mozzarella cheese. A group of kids from a school in another state are holding a charity bake-off at a local children’s center. We also have six new followers.

  And there’s one photo in particular that grabs my attention. It’s a batch of heart-shaped cookies with pink and purple piping, glitter, sprinkles, and Smarties all at the same time. The photo caption reads: I made these for my brother’s birthday. Hope you like them. Love, Annabel Greene.

  Annabel Greene. At first it takes me a second to remember the name. She was the winner of the school bake-off I did before the Easter holiday. I’m so glad that she’s joined the online club! I “like” her photo and add a comment: Those are so beautiful. You have a real talent. Scarlett x.

  When I’ve finished looking at the member page, I upload the photos I’ve taken tonight of the truffles, and the risotto, which—though it was strictly speaking rice with vegetables—was tasty and warming. If Mom sees the post and asks me about the “special project,” I’ll tell her that we’re doing a summer lunch at the old people’s home. Though recently, Mom’s been way too busy to do much lurking on my blog.

  All in all, I feel happy that I’ve patched things up with my friends, and that we’ve got a new secret project to work on. And glad that Annabel Greene has kept up with her baking. But as I shut down the website, the good thoughts vanish. There’s a little stamp icon at the bottom of the screen with a tiny red number “1” over it. One new message.

  If only I hadn’t opened the bag from the Apple store and the box inside. I knew in my heart that I should have returned the gift—why didn’t I? Did I really need a new computer that badly? Creating a little hole for a worm of unhappiness to creep into my room, and my mind. Maybe I should tell Mom about the emails—get her to tell him to leave me alone. Maybe…

  There’s nothing to do about it. I won’t be able to go to sleep until I’ve faced it. Swallowing hard, I click on the mail icon and open the message.

  Dear Scarlett,

  Me again. You haven’t responded—and that’s fine. I said I wasn’t going to talk about the past, but there are a few things on the record that maybe I need to set straight. So, I’ve decided to lay it all on the line, and let you decide for yourself.

  First, I should tell you why I left. Things weren’t going so well between your mom and me—I was stressed out at work and I didn’t find it easy to talk to her about how I felt. I want you to know that it wasn’t your mom’s fault, or your fault, or your sister’s fault. It happened, and there’s nothing I can say or do to change that or take away that hurt.

  I know this might not do anything to help things between us, but I wanted to make sure that you knew the truth.

  Love, Dad

  The truth. I read the message several times, trying to take in everything that the words say and don’t say. He’s right that it doesn’t help. But as I file it away in the “Dad” folder, somehow it feels like a chapter is closing behind me. A few questions have been answered and no longer have to haunt me. I shut down the computer and lie on the bed, staring at the stars on the ceiling until I finally drop off to sleep.

  Chapter 20

  A Drizzle of Suspicion

  The next week goes by in a blur. I gather some recipes for the tiers of the wedding cake, and try a few at home. Mom is wrapped up in a flurry of fittings and invitations and coffees with friends—something Mom usually never makes time to do. Once or twice, when I overhear her making plans, I have a nagging suspicion that at least one of the “friends” is actually Dad. Not that she can’t meet up with him if she wants—I mean, they aren’t married anymore so I guess they can be friends. I’m sure they have lots to catch up on for “old times’ sake.” Though it seems weird that she’d want to see him now, of all times.

  Em-K is away for a few days, and whenever I hear Mom speaking to him on the phone, they seem to be arguing—something I haven’t heard them do before. When that happens, I stick in my earbuds, turn on some music, and try not to listen.

  The good news is that things are going much better at school. At break time and lunchtime, the known members of the Secret Cooking Club gather to discuss the menu, the recipes, and life in general. We’ve added a few twists of our own to the m
enu—sausage rolls in puff pastry, sushi and cucumber rolls, rainbow fruit kebabs, and vegetarian lasagna. I’ve also got a few responses to the message I put out to the wider world. It makes me feel good to know that the kids who have joined the club online are actually real people. And there’s one response that makes me really happy. At lunchtime, I read it aloud to Gretchen, Violet, and Naya, who are sitting at my table in the cafeteria.

  Hi, Scarlett. Thanks for liking my photo. You may not remember me, but we met when you judged the bake-off at my school. I just wanted to say thanks for picking me as star baker, because I’m new at my school, and I was finding it hard to make friends. After the bake-off, I met two other girls who like to bake, and now things are so much better. I wanted to email before, but I was kind of scared. But if you really do want people to come and help you for the special project, my mom says she’ll let me do it. Thanks again, so much.

  Love, Annabel Greene

  “That’s so sweet,” Violet says. “She sounds nice.”

  Gretchen takes out the pages of lists she’s been making of people, dishes on the menu, ingredients, and practice times—she’s taken to her role as organizer like a duck to water.

  “Should I add her to main dishes, or do you want her for starters?” she asks Naya.

  “I’ll gladly have her,” Naya says.

  “I could do with someone else on desserts too,” Violet says. “The cake we’re planning has six tiers.”

  “Okay,” Gretchen says. “I’ll add her there too.”

  “Maybe we should ask her what she wants to do,” I throw out.

  But luckily I don’t have to brave Gretchen’s response because just then, the bell rings—lunch is over. As I’m about to silence my phone, I accidentally scroll down from Annabel Greene’s message and catch sight of the folder marked “Dad.” Instantly, I feel like a rain cloud has come in through the open window and made a beeline for my head.