A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Sure.’ He yawned. ‘Make it the day after tomorrow, actually. That way I’ll know everything is here, and you’ll be good to go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I piped up, just in time to hear a dial tone. ‘We can have our meeting at the same time. See you then.’

  Being a functional baker again was beginning to feel like the most comfortable pair of shoes in the world.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The idea of cooking commercial quantities was suddenly daunting. I knew I could do it – I’d spent years making large-batch items at Mondial – but, at the same time, I was worried everything would flop, burn, set fire to the earth’s crust. My calculations had me needing almost fifteen kilograms of dried fruit, let alone all the alcohol, fruit juice, spices, and pastry to wrap around it.

  With no sign of life in the shop, I knocked on the caravan door. A television emitted a low hum, and I could smell coffee far superior to the brown sludge that sullied the bottom of my mug. The door swung outward with a tired groan.

  ‘Oliver.’

  He looked at me through tired eyes. ‘Lucy, what are you doing up this early?’

  My eyes dipped to my watch. ‘It’s ten o’clock.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked around the van.

  I chanced a look in after him. The caravan was as basic as he could get. An unmade bed against one end, a dining table set up with his laptop, and a tiny kitchen with an oven fit for one, or Munchkin Land. When I looked up at Oliver, he was watching me.

  ‘I’ve come to make the fruit mince.’

  ‘Right.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. It flopped about and dropped around his eyes, and I watched it all like a cat with a red laser dot. ‘Here, take the keys. I don’t think it’s alarmed.’

  I blinked. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I need to get you a set of keys anyway.’ He waved me away, nonchalantly. ‘If you’re using the recipe I’m sure you are, I’ve got some oranges and lemons, too.’

  Damn you, familiarity. It was a stark reminder of past and present which, when they clashed, was a little bit achy breaky on the old heart. Without another word, I took the keys and left him to get dressed.

  The shop was almost complete. While the interior was full of sharp, fresh plaster, the cornice and skirting board details kept in line with the age of the original building. The cold storage room was whirring away, fridges and freezers lining walls that fed into the kitchen, which was stocked with the newest, cleanest benches, cooktops, and ovens. It was all tastefully finished, and I was incredibly excited at the future it held.

  ‘What do you think?’ Oliver asked, suddenly in the door behind me.

  He seemed overdressed, trousers and a black shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. That, or I was underdressed in my jeans and old band T-shirt, hair pulled tight in a bun.

  ‘It looks incredible,’ I said, pulling open oven doors, tapping away at settings.

  ‘It was all a bit slower than I’d hoped, but we’re there now. All we have to do is open.’

  ‘That’s not far away.’ I watched as he walked around the room, inspecting and rubbing at perceived blemishes.

  ‘I moved it to mid-December. Just in time to capitalise on the Christmas rush.’ He yawned. ‘People love to eat their way through Christmas, and I will be happy to feed them.’

  Oliver rustled about under a bench and came up with what looked like a large stockpot, and an apology for not yet having the industrial mixer. It didn’t matter – all I needed was a wooden spoon, the pot, and a set of scales.

  ‘What, no more cooking by feel?’ he joked, producing the scales.

  ‘I’m not feeling entirely confident about all this right now,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Really? That doesn’t sound like the Lucy I know.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Plus, you were just telling me the other day how good you are.’

  As if that wasn’t the bugle call of a challenge. The best part about fruit mix is pouring fruit and alcohol into a bowl indiscriminately. Half a cup too much here or there wasn’t going to throw the recipe too far out of balance. Currants, raisins, sultanas, and fruit peel tumbled in, and the figure on the scales crept closer to what I needed. The worst part was grating what felt like a small farm of apples into the mix. They were crunchy and juicy and, without the help of a large-scale grater, an absolute mess. Looking at the mix in the bowl, it was no wonder my grandmother used to call it a fly’s graveyard. But a tasty one, she’d add with a laugh.

  There was a name for people who turned up after all the work was done: Blister. I’d always said Oliver had that radar. He was always just a little too late to help, whether it was the dishes, washing clothes, or cleaning the house. This time, he reappeared about thirty seconds after I’d poured the last of the alcohol into the mix. A helping of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, and everything smelt like an underage party: thirty per cent mulled wine, seventy per cent drunk.

  ‘Good timing.’ I passed him an almost empty bottle of whisky.

  ‘That’s me.’ He held a box up. ‘Cupcakes, if you’re hungry.’

  I was glad to see the back end of the mixing bowl, which was sealed and shoved in the first fridge Oliver offered. Its other shelves housed a small stash of food. When I returned, cleaning cloth in hand, Oliver was hunched over his laptop at the end of the bench.

  ‘How’ve your last few days been?’ I asked.

  ‘Not so bad,’ he said, eyes still fixated on the screen, absently peeling the wrap from a cupcake. ‘Just looking at some plans for London.’

  ‘Yeah? What sort of plans?’ I asked.

  ‘I was thinking about buying up some land to grow our produce.’

  While that idea had merit, I wondered just how much work would go into growing a constant, daily supply for a restaurant. Let alone if you had issues with the crop; frost, disease, any number of things could throw you on your head. And never mind severing ties with previous vendors. It was almost cutting off your nose to spite your face.

  ‘We were looking at building hothouses, so everything’s temperature controlled. Fruits, vegetables, herbs, all under the one roof. The only stuff we’d need to buy in would be meat and dessert ingredients.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘How was dinner with Patrick?’

  ‘Really good.’ I nodded. ‘Had a great chat, talked through a few things. Actually, I had some great ideas for us that night.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’ He bashed out a few more words of an email and then gave me his full attention, the screen of his laptop closing with a click.

  ‘So, I was thinking éclairs. We could maybe have a signature flavour and then rotate the others each month.’

  He tapped away at his phone, already distracted. ‘And?’

  ‘Dome cakes. I tried the most amazing apple dome cake the other day. It was biscuit, mousse, pie apples, and glaze.’

  There was still no reaction.

  ‘Chocolate cigars, with mousse and a crispy chocolate shell. Oh, and a tangerine crème brûlée.’

  For a moment, all I could hear was the ticking of the clock and the swipe of my cloth over the bench. Oliver watched on silently, his eyes searching my face. The longer he said nothing, the faster my heart beat. The answer was not going to be good.

  ‘No,’ he said, finally, succinctly.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean no? Why not?’

  ‘They’re just ideas you’ve stolen from someone else. I wanted unique, Lucy. They’re not unique, they’re packet-mix copies.’

  ‘You told me to go to Melbourne and get ideas,’ I snapped.

  ‘I did. I didn’t say steal them, though.’ Oliver shifted in his seat. ‘This shit wouldn’t fly in France.’

  ‘Ooooh, France,’ I taunted, throwing my hands out to the sides, pleading for some leeway. ‘Come on.’

  ‘No, not come on.’ He shook his head
. ‘I want something that people will travel for. If I’m going to serve them éclairs, I may as well wrap banana bread in cling film and sell that for three dollars a slice.’

  ‘You’re always so bloody picky.’

  ‘I’m not being picky, Luce, this is my business. There’s money involved. I can’t afford to be lazy.’

  ‘You’re calling me lazy, are you?’

  Oliver threw his head back and groaned. ‘I’m not calling you lazy. I just want people to come for something distinctive. I need that unique point of difference that they can’t get anywhere else. Serving them the same shit everyone else does is not going to get us that.’

  ‘This is just like you, Oliver.’ I slammed a dish cloth down on the bench.

  ‘Just like me? What are you talking about “just like me”?’

  ‘You ride in on your bloody giant white horse’ – I threw my arms up – ‘and you dangle this bloody carrot at me, offer me the answer to all my problems, except it’s not the bloody answer, and all you do is tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘That’s because you are wrong.’ He laughed. ‘You need to learn to take criticism, Lucy. Do you remember how to do that?’

  ‘Stop being condescending!’ I shouted. ‘I know how to cook.’

  ‘I didn’t say you couldn’t.’

  ‘And these things will taste good,’ I cried. My reasoning was completely out the window in the face of his argument, but I was at least going to try.

  ‘I know they would, I was hunting around Melbourne last week, too. But they’re not what I need.’

  ‘Then tell me what you want!’ I shrieked.

  He crossed his arms slowly, the beginnings of a frown forming. ‘That worked well for me last time, didn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ I crossed the kitchen, finger pointed like a water seeker. ‘Don’t you dare start with this.’

  ‘What? Telling the truth?’

  ‘You’re being purposely hurtful.’

  ‘Oh, and you’re not?’ he asked. ‘Lucy, I’ve offered you a job because I know you’re capable. You’re the most capable person I know, so don’t come around here crying at me because you’re unhappy with your path; you chose your path. Everything that came after that point is your own fault.’

  ‘You know what? I don’t have to listen to this.’

  ‘It’s not like you listen to much, anyway,’ he grumbled, only just loud enough to hear it.

  ‘Oh, piss off, Oliver.’ I snatched the last cupcake up from the bench. ‘This is my cupcake.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I don’t need to put up with this.’ Next in line was my bag. I slung it over my shoulder and made for the door.

  ‘Don’t come back until you’ve calmed down.’

  I turned around and threw the cupcake at him. It landed in his crotch. ‘I am calm!’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In need of a serious session of hate baking, I sat on the precipice of sobbing like a madwoman and devouring everything in sight in some premenstrual, all-you-can-eat, binge-watching, duvet-covered marathon.

  I stormed home from Murray’s so quickly I gave myself leg cramps, which is a great look when you’re rolling about your own front yard clutching at your calves in agony. No amount of stretching toes and pointing north with my tongue held out would work. When I managed to hop inside, I tore open a packet of biscuits.

  My kitchen was decidedly deserted, fruit bowl empty and chocolate stores depleted, thanks to Zoe. A search for a block of Cadbury’s finest led to a warm serving of triple chocolate cake, complete with dark chocolate ganache, and half a bottle of double cream on the side. All of this consumed in bed, counting the ways I hated Oliver right now.

  When I woke the next morning from a suspected sugar coma, I craved savouries. Out came the premade puff pastry, which I smothered with ham, cheese, pickles, and poppy seeds. Piping hot pinwheels for breakfast it was. Somewhere between cleaning and eating, a batch of biscuit dough formed on my bench. Magical elves, I swear.

  I soon found myself climbing shelves in the supermarket, looking for obscure ingredients, like cachous and random cheeses. Zoe found me later that afternoon, my kitchen adorned with white chocolate and raspberry biscuits, an orange syrup cake for Iain, which I promised myself I wouldn’t touch, what was left of the chocolate cake, pinwheels, croissants, and an open bag of Skittles. Oh, and puff pastry cheese twists, because there was nothing better than getting my hands on savouries when I spent so much time making sweets.

  ‘What the hell is going on in here?’ Zoe laughed. ‘You look like a you’re on the cusp of a breakdown.’

  I looked up from the Kitchen Aid, which was whizzing egg whites into stiff, glossy pavlova peaks. A tendril of hair fell from my bun, and I was aware that I looked like I’d rolled in a bag of flour and slept in a barn.

  ‘I’m cooking, what does it look like?’ I swung a hip out. ‘Ta-da!’

  She screwed up her face. ‘It looks like my kids were let loose in the baking aisle.’

  I glanced around. Broken eggshells littered benchtops, traces of slimy whites leaking from the cracked edges. Leftover yolks were screaming to be whipped into lemon curd, biscuits piled upon each other on a cooling rack, spoons covered in cream sat in water-filled pots, and then there was me. I think my T-shirt was crusting over. ‘It’s a bit untidy.’

  ‘So, why are you rage baking?’ Zoe helped herself to a stool and a handful of biscuits. ‘God, these are ah-mazing. You ever thought about doing this for a living?’

  ‘I’m not rage baking,’ I baulked. ‘This is totally normal behaviour.’

  ‘Really? Because you look like a trapped animal.’

  I wrinkled my nose and puckered my lips. ‘I hate him.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She laughed. ‘Is it like my Peter hate right now? Because I can totally identify with that. I’m about to go Geena Davis, Long Kiss Goodnight on him. Are you ready to join me? Or not quite yet?’

  ‘I’m just so frustrated.’ I threw my spatula down. ‘I am trying so bloody hard to do the right thing. It hurt seeing him back here, you know, but then I realised it’s not such a bad thing. I was becoming kind of happy to see him, but he’s so different now.’

  ‘He’s a gazillionaire now.’ Zoe leant in to the bench. ‘He’s changed.’

  ‘He has. He’s so bloody pompous and conceited.’ I pulled a bottle of milk from the fridge and pushed a broken biscuit into my mouth. ‘He called me lazy yesterday.’

  ‘Eat it up,’ Zoe soothed. ‘Broken biscuits don’t count.’

  I pushed another one in and chugged on the milk.

  ‘Yesterday, a difference of opinion became this raging argument. I even threw a cupcake at him. What a waste of good cake! I hate this so much. We were never like this.’ When I scratched at my forehead, a piece of dried dough came away. I needed a shower.

  ‘Because you were young and silly and had heart eyes.’ She reached forward and dipped a knife into the chocolate cake. ‘Or, you know, too busy shagging.’

  ‘We weren’t that bad.’

  ‘Oh, you totally were.’ She roared with laughter. ‘You left my place a few times because he’d made eyes at you. Next thing you know, you’ve made some shitty excuse about work prep and disappeared down the street. Both your phones were shut off for the afternoon. I checked, you know, fairy godmother style.’

  I shook a spatula at her. ‘Those were well-spent afternoons, I’ll have you know.’

  My mixing bowl was now full of sweet, stiff, cloudy white meringue. On its own, it tasted perfect, but I wasn’t sure eating it by the spoonful would be totally acceptable after the food bender that my day had become. I tore off some baking paper, dabbed the meringue into the shape of a wreath, and slid it into the oven.

  ‘Can I take that one home?’ Zoe asked. ‘It’s bloody dinner with Peter’s parents tonight. I would score at least a cat’s bum face from his mother for bringing food.’

  ‘That’s not such a bad idea.’ I handed her a spoon of left
over meringue. ‘Want it?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  Finally, I stood still. I’d spent the entire day rushing around, making and doing, thinking and trying to avoid thinking and, then, nothing. While the cooking was cathartic, it hadn’t solved anything. I didn’t feel any better about my situation, and I didn’t have any solutions. Come to think of it, I actually felt ill.

  ‘What’d you fight about?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘Oh, I had some ideas for desserts. He shot them all down, told me they were all crap.’

  ‘Why were they crap?’

  ‘He wants something unique, something that will drag people from Melbourne out here.’

  ‘That’s me out,’ she said. ‘I’m flat out not burning chicken.’

  ‘You don’t burn chicken.’

  ‘No, I really do.’ She ran her finger around the rim of the mixing bowl. ‘You know, I was watching a programme this morning and they made jam out of lilly-pillies.’

  ‘The berries?’ I asked. ‘They’re native to Australia, I think.’

  Zoe went into a wonderfully longwinded discussion about the programme and, unbeknownst to her, handed me the answer I’d been desperately craving. Like a flash of brilliance, my brain began churning up ideas again. I reached for my iPad with greasy hands.

  ‘I could kiss you right now.’ I looked up from my new Pinterest board: New Foods & Recipes.

  ‘Me? Why?’ she asked. ‘I mean, I’m totally up for it if you are, but …’

  ‘You’ve just dropped the answer right in my mouth.’

  ‘Better than a teabag, I guess.’

  After excited chatter, I shuffled Zoe out the door with her pavlova and a thank-you. I had to get to work right away, this instant – needed privacy, thank you very much. I dragged my chair from the kitchen into my bedroom and began digging around in the back of my wardrobe. I needed that memory box again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Water lapped at the barnacle-crusted posts of the pier. The breeze was light and salty, and the sun shone in a cloudless sky. It was perfect to get my head out of the everyday grind.

  When I first floated the idea of becoming a baker, my parents were a bit confused. Sure, I had sketchbooks full of cakes I’d drawn, but my only attempts at cooking fell somewhere between undercooked slop and small house fire in colour. I’d done my research, oh sweet internet of the late Nineties, and presented them with printouts of courses, cut-outs of job advertisements that shouted a need for junior apprentice bakers and, of course, my drawings.