Whoopie Pie Betrayal - Book 2 (The Whoopie Pie Juggler: An Amish of Lancaster County Saga series)

by Price, Rebecca

  Rebecca turns to consider it, a wisp of a gesture that indicates much more activity stirring just below the surface. She says, “Well, actually, you know the trouble I’ve been having with Ruth.”

  “And you think my beating their county champ will make that better for you?”

  Rebecca says, “Actually, I think it will. It’ll give me a little bit of standing, some credibility. I’d really like that now, with her...it could go a long way toward settling things around the house.”

  I shake my head. “Rebecca, you’ll be a lot better off if you just tell her to back off and give you some space.”

  “You know it’s not that easy for your sister to express herself,” Daed says.

  “Maybe it’s time she learned,” I respond, turning to Rebecca. “You don’t want me to fight your battles for you?”

  “Why does everything have to be a battle with you?”

  What? I repeat silently.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Just stop thinking about yourself for a while, can you?” Rebecca looks at me expectantly, no answer coming. The others look too, all of them waiting for me to tell them what they want to hear.

  What do they want to hear? I have to ask myself. That I’ll do whatever you ask, no matter how much I don’t want to?

  But...why don’t you want to? I have to ask myself. You can lie to them, but you can’t lie to me, Hannah. If you can’t explain it to me, I say to myself, you’ll never be able to explain it to them.

  Never mind, I stop myself before I have a chance to make up some lie I might believe. I already know. You’re resistant because you’re afraid. You don’t want to take the chance and be labeled a loser. You know Lilly is luring you into a trap and you’re afraid to rush into it. Hey, nothing wrong with that.

  Except that you’re already in horrible standing with the community, so if you’re afraid of rejection, I’ve got news for you: You might as well fire up the ovens and take a crack at it, sweetie. In this battle, if you don’t fight then you’ve already lost.

  Finally, I face the silence of their expectations. “Look, I don’t really insist against it, but...there is no event, this is all just speculation...”

  “Well, hon,” Simon says, “the first thing is for you to want to participate. No point in issuing a challenge unless we know you’re in.”

  “And we don’t even know if she’ll accept,” I say. This Grace seems like a very nice, reasonable person. I’m sure she’ll see that this is just a ridiculous can of worms just waiting to be opened.”

  Daed looks down at his plate, fork sifting through the casserole. “Olaf has mentioned his own willingness to help organize the event, once you’ve given your consent.”

  My consent? I repeat silently. Exactly how much have these people been thinking and talking and deliberating about all this, an event which isn’t even likely to happen?

  Smarten up, Hannah, I say to myself. Go to this woman yourself, issue the challenge personally, maybe you can put it in such a way that she won’t accept and that will be that. There won’t be any question about my willingness, and I still won’t have to do this.

  I say, “Okay, fine, if it’s what you all want, I’ll do it. But I want to invite her to participate personally. I’ve met her and, in the name of my integrity and of our new burgeoning friendship, I think I should be the one who goes.”

  My family exchanges satisfied expressions, nods and smiles as they return to the meals in front of them, leaving me to wonder if I haven’t just bitten off way more than I can chew.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I decide to go to the York County Central Market alone. I feel like Grace and I have a bond, even though we’ve only met once. But we share a professional courtesy, a mutual respect between bakers which sets us apart from the others. She and I know the shared secrets of Whoopie greatness, we have a similar perspective.

  So I’m confident that I can reason with her, that she’ll see what I see - a terrible disaster just waiting to happen. I can’t really be sure how it’s going to happen, and as much as I think of myself as an optimistic person, I have an awful feeling about the way this is going to turn out. I don’t see why everybody thinks this is such a good idea. Feuds, rivalries, these things may inspire great art, but they rarely bring about domestic tranquility. And I really don’t feel the need to prove myself, at least I don’t want to feel that need. But even though when I look at it objectively, I see that I actually do need to prove myself, like it or not, to my neighbors, to my family and friends.

  To myself.

  I stroll up to Grace’s booth at the marketplace, a healthy crowd slowly sapping her inventory dry. I stand and watch the happy faces of her customers as they walk away, some with bags of wrapped pies and others biting into their snacks, cream collecting in the corners of their mouths.

  Grace sees me and gives me a friendly nod, turning her attention back to her customers.

  She does have a lot of them, I have to admit to myself. A lot more than I’ve been getting, even before everybody started looking at me sideways.

  I finally step up during a quiet moment. “Hannah,” Grace says, “so glad to see you again! Back for more?”

  “Um, actually, I’m returning the favor of the free pies.” I hand her a brown paper bag with several fresh Whoopies. “Got a minute?”

  Grace smiles and shrugs. “Sure! What’s up?”

  I’m not sure how to say it. I’ve never been a very competitive person, and since I spent almost all my life doing chores, I’ve never participated in this kind of event. I only realize now that I’m not sure how to put my invitation without it sounding mean or aggressive.

  “Um, the thing is, everyone in Lancaster is raving about your pies!”

  Grace smiles, saying nothing. Modest as well as lovely and talented, I have to admit to myself. She certainly would be a worthy adversary.

  So I add, “And, well I guess you know, I’m something of a Whoopie pie baker myself.” Still no answer, just a happy, expectant nod. “And, funny thing is, people have started to wonder whose pies are actually better.”

  “Better? Well, that’s silly.”

  “Isn’t it? That’s what I said!”

  Grace says, “We both have our specialties, our unique approaches. Why must everything always be the best or better or worse or even worst?”

  I shake my head. “I’m so relieved you feel that way! I mean, we’re all supposed to get along and work together, right? What good is a bunch of new bad blood going to do for any of us, right?”

  “Right,” Grace says. “I’m sorry, what?” Reading my confusion, she says, “Bad blood?”

  “Well, not necessarily,” I offer with an uncomfortable chuckle, “I mean, we’re adults, right?”

  “Right.” Grace thinks about it. “And it could do some good, actually. We’ve got a schoolhouse in York County that could use a razing, it’s become an absolute hazard.”

  “Ours too, they say.”

  Grace nods as she considers. “Just another thing York and Lancaster have in common. Makes some sense, since both school buildings were built around the same time.” After a tense, disappointed little moment, Grace adds, “Still, I guess we’ll get the money together some way.”

  “Right, us too.” We stand in the thickening silence and widening distance between us. I’d hoped we’d be friends, and this competition was the first thing I saw interfering with that. Turns out, I was right.

  I say, “Would you want to do it? A bake-off?”

  Grace nods quickly with a casual shrug. “Why not? I mean, in the end, it won’t really matter to me. And if it puts a new schoolhouse up, I’m in favor of it.”

  I give that a little thought. Maybe I’m all turned around on this, I have to suggest to myself. Maybe I’m making too much of it. If it doesn’t bother her, it shouldn’t bother me. This will probably work out fine. How bad can it be, how much can it really blow up in our faces?

  I say, “Well, if you think it’s a good id
ea, I don’t see why we shouldn’t do it. Is a month enough time to put it together? I’ve never really organized such a thing.”

  Grace rolls her eyes as she puts it together in her mind. “Let’s do it at the end of the month, to coincide with a harvest festival. So much more fun than stupid Halloween.”

  Fun, I say to myself. Sure. Fun.

  “I’ll tell the elders in Lancaster,” I say, “you do the same here in York, and I guess I’ll see you at the end of the month.”

  Grace extends her hand and I shake it. “May the best Whoopie pie win.”

  * * *

  I start work immediately on creating the ultimate Whoopie pie. Not that it means everything to me, I’m still very skeptical about this whole business. But when I do something, I set out to do it as well as I can. And the benefits of winning the bake-off are obvious: social acceptance for me and (hopefully) Rebecca, as well as establishing a certain cachet for our family name. With our reputation we need it, and carrying the day at this bake-off will go a long way toward that.

  I’ve done all kinds of Whoopies, of course. After almost twenty-two years on the Earth, I’ve eaten countless pies and made even more, and I’ve had plenty of time and experience to experiment with them. And actually, I’ve created a lot of lovely Whoopie recipes. My pumpkin Whoopies are popular in the fall, but I don’t want to rest on my laurels for this competition. I want to create something new. But that means beating my own double-chocolate Whoopies and my signature Whoopie with a grace of mint. I like Grace’s vanilla and nutmeg Whoopie, but of course I’m not about to steal her recipe. I wouldn’t want to go head-to-head with her on a recipe she innovated anyway.

  She’d hand me my bonnet!

  I work with a few more recipes - banana, which is delicious but it does thicken the filling a bit too much. Strawberry is delicious too. But if the judges aren’t partial to one flavor or the other, no Whoopie of any quality will really prevail. I mean, I could stand there and explain that if they weren’t averse to strawberry, my pie would get a fairer tasting.

  But that’s not the way a bake-off works and we all know it. I need an innovation that is universal to all Whoopie pies, that transcends mere flavor. My mint innovation was along those lines, because almost any of the various Whoopie flavors can do with a quick shot of mint.

  But again, I’ve been there and done that. She knows about the mint in the pies, a lot of people do (word of it even made it all the way here from Indiana and wound up in Simon’s fated ears). So I need something better, something beyond flavoring.

  I begin to experiment with different methods of cooking the filling, whipping it for twice as long, varying the amount of marshmallow.

  It finally occurs to me to work with the cake itself. Using a recipe that’s popular in the American South, I bake some of the Whoopie cakes with soda, which gives them a very light and airy feel.

  But they break apart too easily under the weight of the filling. They’re delicious, but far too messy to be eaten by hand, and that’s what a sandwich cake like the Whoopie pie is all about.

  I lose track of time. Has it been hours, days, or weeks? I sometimes wonder, shaking my head and turning back to the whipping, the stirring, the mixing, the grinding. Flashes of moments with my husband and his grandmother punctuate the stream of crumbs and eggs and bowls and wooden spoons until I almost lose track of what I’m doing and how much progress I’ve made.

  Or haven’t made.

  I keep working it over and over in my head. It’s one of the challenges I’ve always relished about baking, reflecting and riddling out the mysteries of what will bring that mercurial smile to a happy, hungry face.

  I like the lighter consistency of the cakes, I reason it out, but the filling has to be lighter too. Then how to keep the whole thing from just falling apart in one’s hands?

  I begin to think about the cakes, imagining them with a crispy surface, almost like a shell, but with insides that are very light. A crisp but airy cake will hold its shape, I figure. But the cream should still be lighter, maybe with a sprinkle of coffee flavor, or mocha dust?

  Then it occurs to me: The breakfast Whoopie! Light enough to be eaten in the morning after a big and hearty breakfast, yet still every bit as delicious and rewarding for an evening’s dessert.

  I get to work, Gramm watching me with a certain glint of admiration from her easy chair in the living room. I’m happy enough to let her relax for a while, and I really don’t need an assistant in the kitchen. In fact, it’s best for me to be left alone with the baking. Something about my relationship to it, the process I undertake when creating my pies; it’s a personal and, in a way, a private experience.

  I master the cakes with a very simple and elegant technique. After baking the cakes, which are very light with as much soda as I can use in preparing the batter, I brush them with melted sweet butter and put them back into a preheated oven at a very high temperature for a very short time. The butter crisps the surface of the cakes without overcooking them. After just a few variances in timing and measurements, I finally nail the cakes.

  I have to admit, I’m very proud of the way the cakes turn out. I’ve never really eaten cakes like these. They’re crisp and yet they melt in the mouth, their gentle sweetness is a perfect, subtle blend. Even without the filling, these are mouthwatering treats. There’s a little crunch that rises up when the teeth sink in, and these airy cakes manage to hold their shape even after several bites, which is crucial.

  I stand in suspense as Gramm bites into one plain cake. Her little eyes dip shut, her thin and wrinkled lips stir as she chews, a smile becoming stronger and more rewarding as she embraces the unique character of my new specialty.

  To lighten the filling, I use less marshmallow but add a bit of lemon juice and stir it in a frozen metal bowl, something Gramm recommends. It takes a few days to work out the right balance, and my right arm is stiff and numb from all that stirring, but the ultimate result is amazing. It fills the mouth before disappearing, leaving only a gentle trace across the tongue, a memory that begs to be refreshed with another bite.

  Together, the crispy light cakes and the lighter filling make, if I do say so, the absolutely perfect Whoopie pie. After eating her first one, Gramm reaches out to me with her quivering, bony hands and puts each on one of my cheeks. She gives me a big congratulatory kiss on the lips, which tastes of the light coffee flavoring and fine mocha powder dusting and which will be the crowning glory of my new breakfast Whoopies.

  * * *

  Anticipation is really building the two weeks before the festival, being billed as The First Annual York / Lancaster Whoopie Pie Bake-Off and Fall Harvest Festival and Auction. Town elders from both cities, Lancaster and Green Hill (in the heart of York County), decide to have the festival at the gorgeous William H. Kain County Park. The park is huge, with lots of trees and two lakes, one of them huge and dominating the center of the park. There’s room for thousands of people, and it’s a good thing.

  Men from both counties work to build a stage where Grace and I are to bake our pies right in front of the crowd. Vendors will be lined up without permanent booths as they’d have at the Central Market in Lancaster, or even the one in York. This is to be a one-shot deal.

  God willing.

  For the week before the festival, I can’t help but notice that flyers and posters are going up, in shop windows and on telephone poles, promising wholesome family fun and the wondrous crafts and foods we Amish are famous for.

  And that one treat in particular.

  I start to get a little sick with nerves, queasy, the closer the date comes. One week, three days, the next day; I’m haunted by a creeping anxiety that my loving husband can’t kiss away and my jocular brother can’t joke away.

  I’m afraid.

  I’m afraid that I’ll fail, that I’ll let everybody down and look foolish in their eyes, that this will follow me the rest of my life. They’re hard enough to please as it is, I don’t think losing such a high-profile
contest will do my stature in the community much good. And even though I don’t really care what they think of me, it would be nice to be accepted among my neighbors. And these are the people whose kids will be going to school with our kids, speaking ill of us to them or not, depending largely on how things go at this stupid bake-off.

  Well, I tell myself, it’s too late to turn back now. Just do your best and know that God will not let you be harmed.

  I think about Simon, and our comforting nights together as we drift off to sleep, lying on his chest, his soft voice reassuring me that he’ll always love me, that these little things come and go and are never as big as they may seem. We agree that, instead of telling God how big the mountain is, we much prefer to tell the mountain how big our God is.

  Because faith can move mountains.

  And that morning, as we rise with the sun and gather everything for the carriage ride into York County, I feel like I’m facing the Matterhorn itself.

  When we arrive, Grace is already there, her husband and men from her county setting up the propane stoves we’ll be using to cook and the iceboxes we’ll use to keep our dairy food cold. The first thing I do is fill my metal bowl full of ice and put it in the freezer so it’s as cold as possible when I prepare my filling.

  “Hannah,” Grace says, approaching me with her hand extended in welcome and friendship. I take it in the same spirit. “So nice to see you again.” She turns to the handsome man standing behind her, tall and dark-haired with a chiseled face. “This is my husband, James.”

  James smiles and nods, tipping his hat to me as I introduce Simon. The men shake hands as I turn to Grace.

  I ask, “Can you believe what a big deal this has turned into? You’d think it was the second coming.”

  Grace chuckles as she looks out over the first few straggling hints of a crowd. “It’s going to be packed, maybe a thousand people or more.” She looks at me, as if in a sudden reconsideration. “I don’t mean to make you nervous or anything.”

  “No, of course not.”