McTavish Takes the Cake

by Meg Rosoff

  1. The Peacheys Cook

  2. Pa Peachey Bakes

  3. Pa Peachey Bakes Again

  4. Pa Peachey Bakes Some More

  5. The Competition

  6. Pa Peachey’s Dream

  7. The Palace of Versailles

  8. Pa Peachey Hard at Work

  9. Three Days to Go

  10. Two Days to Go

  11. One Day to Go

  12. The Big Day

  13. McTavish’s Near Miss

  14. Disaster for Pa Peachey

  15. Flour for Life

  “What’s for dinner?” asked Ollie.

  “Whose turn is it to cook?” asked Ava.

  Betty stuck her head out of the kitchen.

  “It’s mine,” she said. “On the menu tonight is vegetarian lasagna with a salad of baby greens, and for dessert, caramel-chocolate tart with cream.”

  “Great,” said Ollie.

  “Yum,” said Ava.

  Ever since Ma Peachey had decided that mothers should not be responsible for all the daily chores of family life, the Peachey children had taken over their share of the cooking.

  They learned that making a meal wasn’t difficult. You didn’t have to be old and experienced to make lasagna or chocolate brownies. You didn’t have to be married or very clever to roast a chicken or make fruit crumble. You just had to be able to read a recipe, measure ingredients, and follow directions.

  In no time at all, the three Peachey children were making delicious meals. The Peachey family had never eaten so well.

  Today was Wednesday, so it was Betty’s turn to cook.

  “I still have a great deal of work to do,” Betty told Ava and Ollie, “so please go away.”

  Only McTavish was allowed to stay in the kitchen while Betty mixed flour into melted butter, then slowly added milk to make a sauce for the lasagna. McTavish paid close attention as she whisked together the oil, vinegar, mustard, and salt to make a dressing for the salad.

  McTavish the rescue dog was often called upon to rescue the Peachey family. But in cases where rescue was not actually required, he still found ways to help.

  While Betty was cooking, McTavish helped by cleaning up anything that fell on the floor. McTavish was faster and more effective than a vacuum, and although certain things (like lettuce) were not to his taste, he was excellent at cleaning up bits of cheese, cake, or bacon.

  His services came in very handy when any of the Peachey children cooked. They were all very inventive when choosing recipes, but not always very tidy.

  An average week might begin on Monday with Ava’s roasted vegetable couscous followed by a special Moroccan milk pudding with rose syrup. Not to be outdone, Ollie would follow on Tuesday with roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and beans, with crème brûlée for dessert. Betty always cooked complicated vegetarian dishes on Wednesday, while Ma Peachey preferred a simple dinner of spicy tomato pasta with fruit salad for Thursday. Pa Peachey was supposed to cook on Friday, but he grumbled about it so much that the rest of the family just made sandwiches on Friday nights and ate in front of the TV.

  “I don’t like to cook,” Pa Peachey said.

  “You like to eat,” Betty observed.

  “That’s different,” he said, which Betty had to admit was true.

  Cooking became so competitive in the Peachey family that even breakfast was exciting.

  Instead of a bowl of cereal, breakfast might be a stack of pancakes with fruit compote and genuine Vermont maple syrup. Or oatmeal with blueberries and figs. Betty had even started making sourdough bread every week, because—she said—it made much tastier toast. Which it did. Once you’d eaten homemade sourdough toast with butter and jam, it was difficult to eat anything else.

  As week followed week, the Peacheys became more and more particular about their food. The problem with eating good, healthy, homemade food every day is that you don’t really want to eat boring meals or junk food anymore.

  So it happened that one fine morning, Pa Peachey sat down to breakfast, picked up a piece of toast from his plate, and gasped.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  “It’s toast,” Ava said. “A little bit like bread only browner.”

  “Toast? You call this toast? This is not toast. Is it homemade? Was the bread lovingly shaped by the hands of a member of our very own family? Was it kneaded until smooth and put in a warm place to rise for as long as it needs? No, it was not.” Pa Peachey held the toast at arm’s length as if it might be dangerous. “This is poison.”

  “Poison?” said Ollie, looking confused.

  “This is not bread,” Pa Peachey said. “It is a cheap stand-in made and sold by money-grubbing manufacturers who do not care what real bread tastes like. You might as well eat an old sponge.”

  Ollie stared at his father. Then at his toast. Then at his father again. “It doesn’t taste as good as Betty’s bread,” he said, “but—”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Pa Peachey said. “But any toast is not better than no toast. This so-called ‘toast’ is packed with chemicals, preservatives, and sugars, prepared in a fraction of the time it takes to make real bread, then packaged in plastic that is guaranteed to destroy the oceans.”

  Pa Peachey glared at his youngest child and pointed an accusing finger.

  “You!” he said to Betty.

  “Are you blaming Betty for the destruction of the oceans?” Ollie asked.

  “My sourdough bread is still rising. It will not be ready till tonight,” Betty explained.

  “One day of supermarket bread will not kill us,” Ava said.

  “Perhaps,” said Pa Peachey. “But this toast is fit only for a dog.”

  Everyone looked at McTavish, who felt deeply offended. He thought Betty’s sourdough bread was much better than supermarket bread.

  “Betty is only nine years old,” Ma Peachey said. “She has school and homework and friends and chores. It is a special treat for us when she makes sourdough bread. It is not her job.”

  “Why don’t you make the bread yourself?” Betty asked Pa Peachey. “Then you could be certain of having it for breakfast every day.”

  “Maybe I will,” Pa Peachey said with a thoughtful expression. “After all, if the youngest member of the family can make bread, it must not be very difficult.”

  Ollie and Ava turned to look at Betty.

  Betty frowned.

  McTavish blinked.

  Ma Peachey looked nervous.

  The following morning was Saturday.

  When Ma Peachey woke up, Pa Peachey was already hard at work in the kitchen.

  Ma Peachey pulled on her clothes and started down the stairs. Before she reached the bottom, she heard a terrible noise.

  BANG!

  In the kitchen, she found Pa Peachey. At least she thought it was Pa Peachey. The person she thought was Pa Peachey was completely covered in flour. The floor was covered in flour. The counters were covered in flour. McTavish was covered in flour.

  “Hello,” said Ma Peachey.

  “Hello,” Pa Peachey said. “I’m afraid there has been an accident.”

  “I can see that,” Ma Peachey said.

  “The flour . . .” Pa Peachey said.

  “Yes?” Ma Peachey said.

  “Exploded.”

  Ma Peachey frowned. “Are you sure you didn’t drop it? I have never heard of flour exploding before.”

  Pa Peachey shrugged. “There is always a first time. I have discovered that baking is a very dangerous pursuit. I might have been killed.”

  Ma Peachey did not ask how Pa Peachey might have been killed.

  “And by the way, making bread is far more difficult than it looks,” Pa Peachey told her.

  �
��I can see that,” said Ma Peachey.

  “And far messier,” Pa Peachey said.

  “I can see that, too,” Ma Peachey said. She went to the cupboard, took out a dustpan and brush, a bucket, a sponge, and an apron, and handed them to Pa Peachey.

  “I have been thinking,” Pa Peachey said, taking the bucket and putting on the apron. “Baking is a difficult and hazardous occupation. Betty is far too young to handle perilous tools such as knives and fire.”

  “And bags of flour?” Ma Peachey asked.

  “Precisely,” said Pa Peachey.

  “But who will take over the bread baking?” Ma Peachey asked.

  “I will,” said Pa Peachey.

  “I hope you will not find it too dangerous,” Ma Peachey said.

  “I have learned a few lessons from my first attempt,” said Pa Peachey.

  “Excellent,” said Ma Peachey.

  “Once I have cleaned up,” Pa Peachey said, brushing the flour out of his eyes, “I will go to the store for more flour.”

  “Make sure to get the nonexploding type,” Ma Peachey said.

  “Ha, ha,” said Pa Peachey.

  McTavish followed Ma Peachey out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of white pawprints.

  At noon that same day, Pa Peachey was still baking bread. He was still baking bread at two o’clock. And at three and at four and at six.

  At seven o’clock that evening, Pa Peachey was still hard at work in the kitchen. No one dared disturb him to inquire about dinner.

  At seven thirty, there was still no sign of dinner.

  Ollie crept into the kitchen for some cheese and crackers, hoping Pa Peachey would not notice him.

  But Pa Peachey did notice him.

  “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” Pa Peachey shouted.

  Ma Peachey looked thoughtful. “I wonder if I should have a word with the chef,” she said.

  “Don’t go near the kitchen if you value your life,” Ollie said. “From now on, it is off-limits. Apparently.”

  “Pa Peachey is making bread,” Betty said nervously.

  “I know,” said Ma Peachey, frowning. “A most interesting turn of events.”

  “You say interesting; I say disturbing,” Betty said.

  “You say disturbing; I say disastrous,” Ollie said.

  Ava said nothing, as she was just coming to a good part in A History of Western Philosophy by Bertrand Russell and wanted to know what happened next.

  At approximately eight o’clock that evening, the aroma of baking bread emerged from the kitchen, making the poor hungry Peacheys feel even hungrier.

  At approximately eight twenty-two, Pa Peachey stuck his head out of the kitchen and called the family in. “Ta-da!” he said, indicating his first-ever completed loaf of bread with a flourish. “I think you will find that this is the finest and most delicious loaf of bread ever made.”

  “It certainly looks good,” Betty said.

  Pa Peachey produced a large bread knife and attempted to cut a slice off the hot loaf. He sawed and he sawed, but the loaf of bread was too hard.

  “This knife is woefully dull,” Pa Peachey said with a frown.

  Ollie disappeared into the garage and returned with a hacksaw. “This might work,” he said.

  HACK, HACK, HACK went Ollie’s hacksaw. Then once more, HACK, HACK, HACK. After many minutes and much hard work, Ollie had managed to cut a slice of Pa Peachey’s bread for each of them.

  Pa Peachey’s bread was hot. It looked good. It smelled good. But it was very chewy. You might even say it was as chewy as a shoe. Pa Peachey’s bread was so chewy, in fact, that it was almost more like punishment than bread.

  The Peachey family chewed and chewed. They chewed and chewed and chewed some more.

  Time passed.

  Betty sneaked half of her bread to McTavish, who took it to the corner, where he lay growling and tearing at it with his powerful teeth. But even McTavish could not chew Pa Peachey’s bread. In the end, he managed to bite off a small piece and left the rest on the floor.

  Maybe some rats will find it and take it away, McTavish thought.

  When at last everyone had finished chewing, nobody asked for another slice. For one thing, their jaws were too tired to speak.

  Ollie managed to mumble something through exhausted lips. “Is there anything else for dinner?”

  Everyone looked at Pa Peachey, who only smiled happily.

  “I think I have found my calling,” he said. “Baking is both stimulating to the mind and relaxing to the spirit. From now on, you children can make the meals, but I will do all the baking.”

  At this, McTavish pricked up his ears.

  It is worth remembering that dogs have very sensitive ears. They can hear sounds from four times the distance and at far higher frequencies than humans can.

  Just now, McTavish could hear a kind of alarm bell ringing. Of course it is possible that he just imagined he could hear an alarm bell ringing, but it didn’t really matter.

  The idea of Pa Peachey as head baker sounded very alarming to McTavish.

  Pa Peachey did not make bread during the week. He was far too busy and tired after a long day at work. But on weekends, he rolled up his sleeves, put on his apron, closed the door to the kitchen, and baked. He baked and he baked and he baked.

  Sadly, Pa Peachey was not very good at baking.

  Most of what he made came out wrong. Not just a little bit wrong, but spectacularly, outstandingly wrong.

  His sourdough bread was so heavy it could be used as a ship’s anchor.

  He tried baking cakes instead.

  Instead of being light and delicate, his cakes were as heavy and flat as manhole covers. Instead of rising, they fell.

  He tried other recipes.

  Instead of tasting sweet, his cupcakes tasted strangely like liver. His fudge never hardened. His cookies turned to charcoal.

  This was good news for McTavish, who was always willing to dispose of Pa Peachey’s mistakes. Misshapen pies, wobbly tarts, burned cookies—McTavish selflessly devoured them all. He particularly liked the cupcakes that tasted like liver.

  McTavish had cakes for breakfast, tarts for snacks, and cookies for supper. This was not a healthy diet for a dog, but McTavish felt that he owed it to the Peachey family to rescue them from the terrible baking. Which often did not taste as bad as it looked.

  Weeks passed. Much to everyone’s surprise, Pa Peachey’s baking did not improve with practice.

  “This is perfectly awful,” Ollie said, spitting out an apricot tart that tasted like sand.

  “I’d definitely eat this if I were starving to death,” Ava said of salted toffee torte that could only be broken with a hammer.

  “I wonder how he did this,” Ma Peachey said, staring at a chocolate cake that looked like a deflated football.

  “Practice makes perfect,” Pa Peachey said cheerfully. “Now please give me space. I have work to do.”

  Practice did not make perfect for Pa Peachey.

  He taught himself decorative icing and made piped roses that looked like toads.

  His raspberry-and-lemon cheesecake weighed as much as an anvil.

  His meringues pulled everyone’s fillings out.

  His brownies were black.

  His sponge cake tasted exactly like a sponge.

  McTavish continued to chomp his way through every failed dessert with courage and stamina. He was a very brave and steadfast dog.

  Day after day, he dined on cake. Day after day, his waistline expanded. He became stocky, plump, and finally, he became almost fat. He was slow to leap out of bed in the morning, and most of the time he felt quite unwell.

  “Do you mean to say you don’t like my toffee cream tart?” Pa Peachey asked McTavish one night as he dumped his latest failed experiment into McTavish’s bowl.

  McTavish lay on his bed and groaned. He couldn’t eat another thing.

  “Well, doesn’t it just figure?” Pa Peachey muttered. “I toil and toil over a hot stove only
to be met by rejection and contempt. Not merely from my family but from man’s best friend as well! There’s gratitude for you.”

  “Poor McTavish,” Betty said, patting him gently. “This diet cannot be good for you. I shall have to help you.”

  From then on, Betty helped McTavish by eating half the ruined cakes, half the ruined puddings, half the ruined cupcakes, and half the ruined cookies. Some tasted very good, and some tasted as bad as they looked. The ones that tasted like liver always went to McTavish.

  But as much as Betty and McTavish liked eating cake, and as much as they were willing to make sacrifices for their family, it soon became clear that this could not go on. McTavish no longer felt healthy. He and Betty could no longer run and play ball without feeling out of breath.

  As the Peacheys’ official rescue dog, McTavish felt obliged to save them from Pa Peachey’s terrible desserts. And from a future of idleness and obesity.

  Which he was willing to do, as soon as his stomach stopped hurting.

  One fine day, Pa Peachey arrived home from work in a state of high excitement.

  “Look what I found in the newspaper!” he called as he opened the front door.

  The Peachey children ran to greet him.

  “A bake-off competition will be held,” Betty read from the front page, “to discover the town’s best and most ambitious baker. Judging will take place on the first Sunday of the month at the town hall—”

  “By the mayor herself!” Pa Peachey interrupted. “And look here!” He pointed to the bottom of the poster. “First prize: five hundred dollars, donated by the Fame and Fortune Flour Company.”

  “Wow,” said Betty. “Five hundred dollars could pay for cooking lessons for the entire family!”

  “Wow,” said Ollie. “With five hundred dollars we could buy all our cakes from the very excellent bakery in town.”

  Pa Peachey glared at him. “That will not be necessary, Oliver. Not when you have a top-notch baker such as myself right here at home.”

  Nobody said a word.

  “Are you planning to enter the competition, Pa?” Betty asked.

  “Of course I am planning to enter the competition,” Pa Peachey said. “Not only am I planning to enter, I am planning to design and build a creation so difficult, so surprising, so impressive, that I will certainly win first prize.”