Death of a Crabby Cook

by Penny Pike

  Unfortunately, life wasn’t progressing the way I’d hoped. I was beginning to think I’d be serving Principal’s Pot Pies and Custodian’s Crab Mac ’n’ Cheese for the rest of my days. The only respite from the daily food truck workout was my budding relationship with Jake Miller, the dreamboat from the Dream Puff Truck. The only trouble was, I’d been sampling so many of his creamy concoctions that the result was beginning to show around my waist.

  Until recently, that was. I hadn’t had a cream puff in a couple of weeks. Jake had been acting oddly, and I hadn’t seen him much lately.

  I yawned, trying to wake up, and took another sip of the latte. “Are you sure this isn’t decaf?”

  Aunt Abby shook her head, her face buried in the brochure. Her Clairol-colored fire-engine red curls swung back and forth. “Chocolate contains caffeine, you know. Maybe you should pour some chocolate syrup in that cup.”

  “I’d have to add the whole jar to get the same amount of caffeine that’s in a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll just have another brownie.”

  “True,” Aunt Abby said. “There are even more benefits to chocolate. Did you know it contains iron, helps prevent tooth decay, and has antioxidants that help minimize aging?” She patted her porcelain skin. The only giveaways to her age were the tiny laugh lines around her eyes. I wondered how much chocolate she’d consumed over the years.

  “Stop!” I finally said, holding up a hand. “I’ve gained five pounds from eating all of Jake’s chocolate cream puff samples, especially those Mocha Madness ones. No more talk about chocolate! Just hearing about it is making me fat.” I put down the brownie and sipped my coffee.

  “Well, you’d better get used to it,” Aunt Abby said, “because I have a surprise.”

  “Oh?” I asked warily, peering over my coffee mug. It was too early in the morning for one of Aunt Abby’s surprises.

  “I just signed us up for the Chocolate Festival Competition!”

  I set my mug down with a clink. Coffee sloshed inside it like a mini tsunami. “But your specialty is comfort foods, not chocolate.”

  Aunt Abby frowned at me. “Hmph. Are you forgetting my Chocolate-Covered Potato Chips? My Chocolate–Peanut Butter Sandwiches? My Chocolate Pasta? My Chocolate Pizza? I’ve seen you sneak plenty of those chocolate leftovers at the end of the day.” She eyed the half-eaten brownie.

  She was right. Aside from her usual fare of American comfort foods with school-themed names such as Cheerleader’s Chili, Coach’s Cole Slaw, and Bus Driver’s BLTs, my aunt Abby had put her own chocolate twist on classic cuisine. Her chocolate-dipped, raspberry-iced Twinkies were to die for.

  I loved just about everything on my aunt’s School Bus menu, but I wondered whether her chocolate offerings were good enough for the prestigious San Francisco Chocolate Festival. The annual event featured renowned chefs from around the world competing for some hefty prizes. It seemed out of my aunt’s league.

  “Don’t you think my chocolate goodies are worthy of awards?” Aunt Abby asked.

  I cleared my throat and backtracked, worried I’d hurt her feelings. “Oh, sure they are . . . but it’s a tough competition. Remember last year’s winner, George Brown? He owned his own gourmet chocolate shop and took home the grand prize with his chocolate-covered bacon. Which, by the way, wasn’t bad.”

  “Yes, I remember. This year he’s one of the judges. But nothing beats the creation I’ve come up with this year.” She smiled mysteriously. “Not even chocolate bacon.”

  “Really? You’ve got something new planned? What is it?”

  “Top secret. If I tell you, I’ll have to—”

  “I know, I know—kill me. Just give me a hint, then. Chocolate-covered snickerdoodles? Chocolate-dipped Danish? Chocolate-frosted cinnamon buns?”

  She harrumphed. “Very funny. Now you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  I shrugged in response to her secretiveness. “It’s going to be a lot of extra work, you know. Are you up to it, in addition to running your busterant?”

  For that matter, was I, as one of the A-team assistants? I didn’t have time for a lot of extra work. I had a book to write, a career to develop, a life to begin.

  “What extra work?” came a low voice from behind me.

  Dillon, Aunt Abby’s twenty-five-year-old son, sauntered barefoot into the kitchen. Tall and slim like his deceased father, he wore a thin, shaggy robe over his bare chest and Superman boxer shorts. His curly brown hair looked as if it hadn’t seen scissors, gel, or even shampoo in days, nor had his face seen a razor.

  He went directly to the pantry, opened the door, and stared at the loaded shelves. “Mom, you’re out of cereal.”

  “Yes, dear,” Aunt Abby said to her boomerang son. Dillon had been “asked” to leave his university because of some suspected hacking activity and had moved home to “reconfigure” his life goals. In other words, to sponge off his mom and play computer games.

  “Got any more of those chocolate whoopie pies you made last night?”

  “Dillon! Those were supposed to be top secret.” Aunt Abby shot a look at me. “Well, Darcy, now you know my secret weapon for the chocolate competition—my newest creation: Killer Chocolate Whoopie Pies. But both of you need to keep quiet about this. I don’t want anyone to find out and steal my idea before the contest begins.”

  “Killer Chocolate Whoopie Pies?” I asked, stunned at her entry choice. I wasn’t even sure what a whoopie pie was.

  “It’s my own recipe,” Aunt Abby said, as if she’d read my mind. “Instead of using cakey chocolate cookies, I use brownie cookies. And instead of vanilla filling, I use chocolate buttercream frosting. And then I dip the whole thing in melted chocolate and add sprinkles.”

  It sounded like overkill, but when it came to chocolate, maybe there was no such thing.

  “So where are they?” Dillon said, opening the refrigerator door.

  “I hid them in the crisper section,” Aunt Abby said. Dillon opened the refrigerator drawer, hauled out a plastic container, and set it on the counter. After withdrawing an Oreo-sized “pie,” he popped it in his mouth.

  “Want to try one, Darcy?” Aunt Abby asked. She picked up the container and brought it over to the kitchen island where I sat. Dillon followed her like a hungry puppy and plopped down on the barstool next to me, licking the chocolate off his lips.

  I reached in and took one of the chocolaty spheres. Taking a tentative bite, I let the sweet morsel dissolve in my mouth. The flavor flooded my tongue.

  Wow. Chocolate heaven.

  “This is incredible!” I said when I could talk again.

  “Awesome,” Dillon agreed, then popped another one into his mouth. He smiled, revealing chocolaty teeth.

  “You may actually have a shot at winning this thing,” I said. “What’s the prize?”

  “Den fouszen dollars,” Dillon said with his mouth full.

  “Ten thousand dollars?” I repeated. I was used to Dillon’s food-obstructed speech.

  “And a chance to appear on that Food Network show Chocolate Wars,” Aunt Abby added, batting her mascaraed eyelashes in excitement.

  “Wow,” I said again. “That’s a lot of money.” I knew Aunt Abby’s dream was to appear on one of the many cooking shows on TV, but the money would certainly come in handy as well. “When’s the festival?”

  “In two weeks,” Aunt Abby said.

  I gulped. “Well, we’d better get to work!”

  • • •

  Half an hour later, I was on my way to Fort Mason to help Aunt Abby in her Big Yellow School Bus and begin the day of serving comfort food to hungry patrons. I hoped to see Jake, since he’d seemed too busy the past few days to stop by or meet after work. I wanted to tell him about Aunt Abby entering the Chocolate Festival competition.

  As I drove down Bay Street to the marina, I thought about the annual festival a
nd competition. Although I’d covered the event for the newspaper, this would be the first time I’d get to see it from a contestant’s point of view. The festival was held near Ghirardelli Square, home to one of the original chocolatiers of San Francisco. Last year, fifty thousand people had paid the entry fee to taste the mouthwatering wares of two dozen entrants. I’d learned from Aunt Abby that any legitimate vendor could participate, as long as he or she offered something chocolaty—and could make enough for fifty thousand people! Each entry in the competition would be judged by a select panel of experts in the chocolate industry. And while the thought of tasting all that chocolate had my heart beating faster, it was the winner’s ten-thousand-dollar check that really excited me. Aunt Abby had promised Dillon and me each a third if we won.

  I pulled up to the permit-only parking lot at Fort Mason in my VW Bug and headed for the circle of food trucks parked in an adjacent lot. The area was home to a dozen permanent vendors, including my aunt, but other trucks came and went, depending on how popular they were. There was always a long list of new trucks vying for the few nonpermanent spots. My aunt had been fortunate—her comfort food menu was a hit with people who longed for “mom’s home cooking.”

  I spotted Jake outside his Dream Puff Truck, and I swung by to say good morning, tell him about Aunt Abby, and see whether I could snag one of his Dream Puffs of the Day. The hand-printed blackboard sign read TODAY’S SPECIAL: CHOCOLATE RASPBERRY MOCHA MOUSSE.

  OMG. It was all I could do to keep from drooling down the front of my “Big Yellow School Bus” T-shirt.

  He was filling bowls with toppings for his dreamy delights.

  “Do you have anything with no calories?” I asked, coming up behind him.

  He whirled around and gave me that adorable, toothy grin. “Darcy!”

  “Morning, Jake,” I said, unable to stifle my own smile.

  “It’s been awhile,” he said, looking me over. “You look . . . really nice.”

  I ran my fingers self-consciously through my shoulder-length auburn hair. “You’ve been busy,” I said.

  I’d told myself that Jake had been too busy with his food truck to do much socializing, but in truth, I was beginning to wonder if his interest in me was starting to wane.

  “Yeah, sorry about that, Darcy. Things have been unusually hectic,” he said as he arranged the condiments on the outside shelf. He looked incredible in his white “Dream Puff” T-shirt and faded jeans.

  “Oh, I know how it is. Me too. You know—lots of stuff going on. . . .”

  Yeah, right.

  “Actually, I’ve been dealing with something the past couple of weeks,” he said, brushing his sun-lightened brown hair off his forehead, “but, hey, if you’re free later tonight, how about we get a drink and catch up?”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ve got some news to share.”

  “Really? What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight,” I said mysteriously. I just hoped Aunt Abby hadn’t already blabbed her news about entering the Chocolate Festival competition. She had a habit of sharing everything—including details of my personal life—with anyone who would listen.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Jake said. He reached in through the open truck window and pulled out a two-bite cream puff nestled in a paper doily. The delicate puff was filled with a pinkish mocha-colored cream, drizzled with dark chocolate, and topped with a red raspberry. “Want to try my latest?”

  I smacked my lips. “Love to! Is it today’s special?”

  He nodded. “Let me know what you think.”

  I took a bite. The creamy mixture spread over my tongue and melted away in seconds, leaving me the crunchy shell to savor.

  Jake reached over and with his fingertip wiped away the raspberry mocha mustache I apparently wore. Then he licked the tip of his finger.

  Whoa. I suddenly felt dizzy. I didn’t know which had my heart racing so fast—Jake’s dreamy cream puff or the mustache removal I’d just experienced.

  I held up the remainder of the cream puff. “This is to die for,” I managed to say.

  “You like it?”

  “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “Great,” he said, grinning again. “Because I just signed up for the Chocolate Festival competition, and that’s what I’m entering.”

  I felt my smile droop. Oh no! Jake was entering the competition? With that killer cream puff? Suddenly my news about Aunt Abby’s entry didn’t sound so exciting.

  “Are you okay?” Jake said, obviously noticing my reaction to his announcement.

  “Oh, yes . . . of course!” I said, mustering up some enthusiasm. “That’s . . . great! I’m sure you’ll do well. . . .”

  “Hope so. I don’t care about being on the TV program, but I can always use the money.”

  “No—yes—sure! It’s definitely a winner.” I pointed to Aunt Abby’s bus. “Uh, I . . . gotta go. I’m going to be late. You know what a tyrant my aunt can be. See you tonight?”

  He smiled.

  I turned and hustled on toward my aunt’s school bus before I blurted the news. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Jake to win. I just wanted us to win more. Now how was I going to tell him about Aunt Abby?

  As I reached the bus, something else Jake had said bothered me. It wasn’t the contest or the fact that we hadn’t seen each other much lately. He’d mentioned the reason he’d been busy was that he’d been dealing with something.

  Something important enough to keep him from spending time with me?

  Or someone?

  • • •

  Before I started plotting his imaginary girlfriend’s demise, I stepped into the bus, wondering how I would break the news to Aunt Abby about Jake’s entry into the competition. Not only would she be competing against some of the best chocolate chefs in the world, but now she’d be going up against her friend Jake Miller.

  But instead of busily preparing today’s menu selection, my aunt was on her cell phone. She was blinking rapidly and had her hand on her chest as if she might be having a heart attack.

  “Aunt Abby!” I rushed over to give her some support. “Are you all right? You look like you’re about to collapse.”

  Lowering the hand that held her phone, Aunt Abby did collapse—onto a nearby stool. She set down the phone and stared blankly at it.

  “What is it, Aunt Abby? Are you ill? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly.

  “Did something happen?”

  Still staring at the phone, she said, “That was Reina Patel. . . .”

  I shrugged, not recognizing the name.

  “She’s the Chocolate Festival coordinator. The one who decides who’s eligible to compete, the one who selects the judges, the one who’s in charge of the whole event.”

  “Did something happen? Are you disqualified from competing for some reason? Because if she says you can’t participate, well, I’ll just go down there and—”

  “No, no,” Aunt Abby said, cutting me off. “I’m still in the competition—”

  “Good,” I said, cutting her off, “because I’ve got some news—”

  She held up her hand to stop me. “Reina called to tell me they’ve had a little glitch in the competition. That’s what she called it—a little glitch.”

  “What kind of glitch?”

  Aunt Abby sighed. Her shoulders sank. “Apparently they’re looking for a new judge to replace George Brown.”

  “Why? Did he quit?” I asked, still anxious about telling her that Jake had joined the competition.

  “No,” she said. “George Brown is dead.”

 

 

  hive.