A Bake Off in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  I caught the chef's eye, and saw an unusual twinkle in it. But Harriet said nothing, merely lifting my board of newly-chopped onions and scraping them into the dish of prepared greens with one deft stroke, as her assistant began pouring the sauce over them and added fresh-grated Parmesan.

  "It smells like a proper Sunday dinner in here," said Gemma, as she laid aside a series of peeled, parboiled onions. "There's enough veg on the stove to feed us all for a week."

  "Maybe Harriet meant 'feast' instead of 'dinner'," I suggested, as I watched the female chef began lifting the skin of three plucked chickens away from the meat, a dish of some sort of greens-and-ricotta stuffing at her elbow.

  "I can't believe she hasn't splashed that gown even once," said Gemma. Whose apron was like mine — covered in green stains from spinach and leeks after an hour's rinsing and chopping.

  Even Lady Amanda found her way downstairs and helped mix the stuffing for the onions as Harriet finished trimming a very large fish with an herb bouquet before popping it in the fridge. By the time the oven was at baking temperature, Lady Amanda made a pot of tea and mixed coffee for everyone present, not that Harriet and her crew availed themselves of a break — apparently, that would be detrimental to the preparation of the delicate onion dish being treated like pages of the Voynich manuscript, which was the last of the dishes being readied for the fridge.

  "I smell a proper custard, and baking apples," said Lady Amanda. "It's making little Harold positively ravenous." She took a bite out of a biscuit from my dwindling 'secret stash' of Dinah's, the ones used to impress Pierre.

  "Is that the boy's name you've chosen?" I asked.

  "I certainly hope so," said Lady Amanda. "On a dreadful note, William wants to name the baby for his great-great-great grandfather Edward if it's a boy. You've seen his portrait in the gallery upstairs, haven't you?"

  I recalled a picture of a rather sour-looking gentleman in spectacles who looked as if he'd just consumed a disagreeable dinner — or was wearing too tight a pair of breeches, possibly. "Edward's not a bad name," I said, trying to sound supportive. "Even if its original bearer is a little ... grim."

  "Exactly. Imagine naming the baby for such a grumpy old bore," said Lady Amanda. "I can't abide it, frankly. I can't believe he's suggesting it." She took a sip from her teacup, then patted her stomach. "Never fear, little Violet. I shan't let your papa have his way in the end."

  "What happened to Harold?" said Gemma, dunking her biscuit in her tea.

  "I feel quite sure it's a Violet in there," said Lady Amanda. "Woman's intuition." She glanced at the clock. "Goodness me, we must get a wiggle on if we're dressing for dinner." She untied her apron and tossed it aside. "They'll be putting the chicken on soon."

  "Dress?" said Gemma.

  "It is a feast worthy of kitchen royalty," Lady Amanda pointed out.

  Fortunately, 'dress' meant neither white nor black tie in this case, but more of a continental evening casual. Pierre Dupine was in his usual suit, while Lord William wore something a little more stylish, which I knew he usually reserved for weekends in London. Lady Amanda's flowing blue summer smock hid much of Violet — or Harold — from sight; it was from the same shop where she persuaded me to buy the summer dress I was wearing, a light black dress with sheer sleeves.

  Dinner was served in the temporary pavilion built behind the manor for the final event. Tomorrow, it would be filled with cooking stations, but tonight the tables had been put together to form one long banquet, surrounded by rented chairs. The white-clothed surface didn't hold decorative cakes and puddings, but the manor's second-best china.

  All of the contestants were there, including Dinah, who seemed perfectly calm despite what we'd seen through the windows earlier. She wore a pink summer lawn dress that seemed light and filmy — it was one of the rare times I saw her out of the kitchen smock and in something posh.

  "You look beautiful," I said to her, as soon as I broke from Matt's arm's embrace and the conversation we'd been having with Geoff and Lord William. "How are you feeling?" I thought back to this morning with slight uneasiness.

  "I'm perfectly fine," she said — not with a touch of forced bravery, I hoped. "I couldn't miss dining at Harriet Hardy's table due to a little cake, could I? It's a real treat to be asked to dine on something she's cooked, and there's no mistake about it."

  "Are you — close to a design?" I asked, half-afraid to know if all those notes and concoctions had come to nothing today. We'd hardly stuck around long enough to see the outcome of all Dinah's labors, not that I wanted to tell her we'd all been standing outside, dying to know, but afraid of disturbing her.

  "Oh, let's not talk about it," said Dinah. "Not tonight. You'll see tomorrow morning. I'll be back to my notes as soon as this dinner's concluded." And the look of determination from before was back in place, proving Dinah wasn't satisfied with this day's efforts.

  One by one, Harriet and her kitchen staff presented the courses. We ate garlic soup with lightly-toasted croutons, or a creamy broth with pureed broccoli lending it a pale green color, and a salad of simple greens. Then came the fish served with lemon wedges; it was delicious despite the fact it still had eyes and seemed to gaze mournfully at me when the platter was passed my way. And that compliment comes from a woman who does not eat dishes that stare at her, I promise.

  "This flounder is delicious," said Matt. "My compliments to the chef and her kitchen."

  "Here, here," said Lord William, lifting his glass. "You've outdone yourself, Ms. Hardy. One assumes you must be missing your restaurant very badly to concoct a feast like this in a mere afternoon."

  "It was quite simple, I assure you," said Harriet, who was pouring a new bottle of wine for her dinner guests. "When I grow weary of dining from other people's kitchens, I find myself compelled to bring to life a quiet dinner of well-prepared dishes. Perhaps you are right. It is because I miss my quiet bistro — or prefer something more satisfying to the palate than fish and chips or a hotel salad."

  "Then you have accomplished it," said Pierre, who raised his glass to her also. "It is not quite true French cooking, but it is very charming." As one of the kitchen staff served him the spinach and parmesan grating, he took a small forkful and tasted it.

  "Ah," he said. "Piquant. It is truly savory." He took another bite. "This has the hand of a French cook in its preparations. The nutmeg — it is perfection."

  "Is it?" I said.

  "Yes. The English cooks — they limit such a spice when they make the sauce, never more than two pinches. It must have at least two to bring out the hidden nature of the sauce, as any French chef knows. Exactement."

  "Two pinches. Really," said Harriet, taking a sip from her glass of wine. "I've always found three to be more suitable." I was sure she was hiding a smile behind her glass just after these words.

  The stuffed chicken was delicious, and as for the kitchen's baked apples with custard, words failed even Pierre Dupine for the English twist on a Mediterranean favorite. I was almost too full after having sampled so many delicious things, so I discreetly let Matt polish off the last of my baked apple.

  We walked home afterwards, leaving the eager contestants to claim the judges' conversation on the eve of the last challenge. I couldn't help but think about Dinah — and probably everybody competing against her — staying up late to try one last icing technique, or experiment with one last flavor.

  "Where are your thoughts?" Matt asked. His arm was around my shoulders, steering me along the familiar cliffs path in the moonlight. The lingering smell of summer rain was lost in the sea's breeze, the only evidence being the gleaming droplets the clear sky illuminated on the rose hedges.

  "Food," I answered.

  "Food? We just ate a six course dinner," he said.

  "I didn't finish my baked apple," I reminded him. "Compared to you, I'm practically starving."

  "I see," he said, his arms sliding around my waist as he turned to face me in the pathway. "So what can we do to que
ll those hunger pangs?"

  "We'll think of something," I said, playing with a button on his shirt as I lifted my eyes to his own. "I'm sure there's a recipe that can cure it."

  "Page sixteen should be the right one," said Matt. "I think there's some cinnamon in this cupboard." Back in our cottage, he opened the cabinet above our fridge, searching behind a tin of tea and a bag of jasmine rice. I tied an apron over my dress, tossing Matt's suit coat onto the sofa in the next room. For good measure, I kicked off my stiletto heels, too.

  I ground dried cloves with a mortar and pestle as Matt sifted flour into a bowl. I carefully spooned allspice and ginger from their respective spice jars, and packed brown sugar into a measuring cup.

  "I hope this tastes better than construction gingerbread," I said. "I had a bite of some in the competition, and it was a little crunchy for my taste."

  "This is softer," said Matt. "A little more like the American 'cookie' than a crisp biscuit. You'll see. It's quite delicious, I promise." He opened a tin of bicarbonate of soda, and pushed the jar of treacle across the table to me, where I was cubing butter.

  "Uh-uh," I said. "No way. No more molasses measuring by me. That part is all yours."

  "If you want." He kissed the top of my head as he joined me, lifting the measuring cup from beside my bowl. "You pour, I'll watch. That way it's still you who's accomplishing it."

  "That's more like it. Thank you."

  We mixed, rolled the dough into balls, and chilled it as we hunted for biscuit cutters, and succeeded in coming up only with a bird-shaped one someone had given me as a gift and a scone cutter. Together, we rolled the dough out while it was still somewhat cold and stiff, where Matt's muscles contributed more than my own. It became a smooth, shiny brown disk, with a few grainy bits of clove here and there like bits of black sand — proof my grinding skills needed a little work.

  "I should've bought that adorable biscuit cutter I saw in the London shop a few weeks ago," I said. "It was shaped like a tiny little cottage. It made me think of Rosemoor."

  "Next time," said Matt. "What were you looking for in a culinary shop, incidentally?"

  "A biscuit cutter shaped like a stork with a bundle," I said. "I was going to get a second little gift for Lady Amanda."

  "Another one?"

  "You know me. I like giving gifts." My cheek brushed against his as we drew the rolling pin towards us in its steady rhythm. "I thought about getting her a baby book instead. Maybe The Mousehole Cat — there were copies of it in a shop window back in December."

  "A clever title for its American readers to pronounce," he said. "Not so much for Cornish ones, in some respects, is it?"

  "Stop reminding me, okay?" I blushed red for the memory of Matt's teasing, even after all this time. "I know, I was a naive American, an easy target for one of your silly jokes."

  His finger lifted a lock of my hair and gently tucked it in place behind my ear again. "I enjoyed teasing you then," he said. "But not because I wanted to mock you. I wanted your attention and had no other way to get it that didn't seem so terribly ... polite. Too formal. You'd relegate me to the status of friend and fellow employee far too quickly like that."

  "Maybe," I said. "I don't think you realize how hard it was for me not to notice you back then."

  I glanced into his eyes, which was both easy and challenging with us in our cheek-to-cheek position. I wondered if he really had no idea how much power a look from his eyes had over me — then and now.

  "Then feel free to tell me all about it," he said, softly, a wicked gleam in his eye.

  "And forget about our biscuits?" I said. "Not on your life." I smudged a little sticky bit of ginger dough across Matt's cheek, hearing him laugh in protest.

  The biscuits were crisp around the edges, but softer in the middle once they cooled from baking. We snapped a beveled-edged circle in half and each tasted it. "Mmm," I said. "Perfect. It tastes like my mom's gingerbread cookies at home."

  "It reminds me a little of some from my own childhood," said Matt. "I think Michelle would like this recipe. Not that you need to impress her, Julianne. I hope you realize that."

  "I know," I said. I brushed some crumbs from my apron. "But I want her to feel at home when she's here with us. And I want to feel more at home as part of your family, and not as much like an outsider."

  "You're not." He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. "This was what we wanted. A collision of cultures, a relationship between two very different people whose pasts will become one future. You needn't think I expect you to change, because it's simply not true."

  "It's not about changing," I said. "It's not about forgetting what I've known, but about embracing something new. It's important to me to find my own place in this life we're sharing. I'm just looking for a new way to be part of your traditions."

  "And maybe we'll be making new ones," suggested Matt. "Ones that include your recipes, your favorite things, too."

  "New traditions. That sounds nice," I said. "Like the beginning of something meant to last for a lifetime. Maybe even pass down to someone else." I lifted my eyes to Matt's with these words. "You know. Someday."

  "Save The Mousehole Cat for when that day comes," he answered, softly. "It's a bit of our own story."

  Our cups of tea were empty, so we toasted to this with two bird biscuits instead. A little crazy, but not more so than two people baking biscuits in the wee small hours while talking about building a lifetime of possibilities together.

  "Speaking of the future, did you hear the latest dilemma over Lady Amanda's baby names?" I asked.

  ***

  I let Kitty have the day off today. I was afraid if I didn't, she might bury herself in the planning process for an upcoming event, and avoid going out this evening. She's still pretending she doesn't care about going, but she can't fool me. I saw the look on her face when Nathan mentioned having an extra ticket.

  I just wish I knew whether that look was for the theatre or for him. Call me crazy ... well, call me curious instead. I think the only cure for it will be to busy myself in studying recipes for Scottish shortbread, because I've DEFINITELY decided against building a gingerbread house this Christmas. And as for Christmas cake — well, I'm afraid I'll dream tonight that Dinah's topples over right in front of Harriet and Pierre. How's that for dreadful psychic premonitions? — Julianne

  ***

  Kitty:

  I hadn't wanted to take a day's holiday, but Julianne all but forced me to do it. She hid most of our work in one of the locked filing cupboards, and I knew that she'd see the marks if I picked it open, so I left it shut up. She's a bit mental sometimes, I've decided; but there was nothing for me to do except tidy up our office and sneak home around three o' clock.

  Nathan's text mentioned half past as the hour for us meeting to drive to Porthcurno, so he hadn't been making a joke about arriving early. Funny that I'd never been to that theatre, really. I had lived in Land's End, which was only a short bus ride to Minack's place on the map. But I'd had other drama on my mind in those days than seeing plays in my free hours.

  As usual, the telly was blasting some program at full volume when I let myself inside the house by way of the kitchen. I slipped past the doorway, spotting Mum busy clipping something from a magazine as an advertisement on Channel 4 boasted about some brand of pasties.

  I kicked off my shoes and tossed my jacket onto the sewing table. Opening the closet, I unzipped the garment bag I kept near the back. In it, a 'posh frock' that I had bought once, and never had a notion of wearing. A bright pink pattern of silk with splashes of wine-colored flowers on it, like a watercolor someone had spilled water over to blur the picture. Quite snug in its curves, with a wide neckline and sleeves that dropped almost off the shoulders. There was a flimsy scarf to match it.

  I took a deep breath. My last chance to turn back was here. Reaching over, I pulled the dress from the closet and began squeezing myself into it. I put my hair up quickly and pinned it, then dug through a little box
on the table, where I kept an old pair of fake diamond earrings that had been Mum's ages ago.

  I slipped on my shoes again and grabbed my pocketbook. Time to creep away before Mum knew I was home. I made it halfway to the door before she popped out of the front room and ran straight into me.

  "Katherine, for land's sake!" she said, clamping one hand over her chest. "You scared me witless, creeping about like that — what are you doing?"

  "I'm just leaving —"

  " — and what on earth are you wearing?" She took note of my appearance with a look of dismay.

  "It's a dress, Mum," I answered sarcastically. "I thought that much would be fairly obvious."

  "Where did you get it?" she asked. "And whatever possessed you? It makes you look a bit tarty, love. Go pop into your room and change straightaway. What if Nigel saw you wearing that?"

  "I don't have time, Mum, I've got to go," I said, impatiently. "Nigel's not even here, besides."

  "Where are you off to in such a rush?" she asked, sounding suspicious. "I don't like secrets, Katherine. If you know what's good for you, you'll keep away from that crowd in Truro —"

  The sound of a loud snicker from the kitchen interrupted our conversation. "Well, well, isn't that a bit of a show?" said a third voice. "Is that a posh frock or your mum's old curtains done up, KitKat?" My cousin Saul had come in through the second door, unannounced, as usual. "Makes you look like that painted doll you had as a kid, the one Teddy and I buried in the garden."

  "You're a right comedian, that's what you are." I rolled my eyes and pushed past him to the door.

  "Don't be peeved, I'm only having a bit of fun," he said. "Come back, Kitty. I need a favor — just a few quid —"