Grace leans toward me a bit, her voice lower. “You’re not...nervous, I mean?”
“Oh, me, no, oh my no, of course not, no...you?”
Grace nods. “A little bit.”
“Me too, terrified!” We share a laugh, then I turn as Simon delivers a boxful of our things to the stage. “Hey, if you run out of anything, I’ve got lots to spare: marshmallow, mocha, salt, whatever.”
Grace sets her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Hannah,” she says, her eyes almost dewy with gratitude.
Well, it’s just an egg and a bit of salt, I think to myself, no reason to build a statue in my honor. But in truth I’m glad she’s grateful and that she’s willing to show it. The more of Grace I see and come to know, the more I like her.
Over the course of an hour, the park begins to fill. Several lines of vendors form, foods on one side, crafts on the other. The smokey scent of beef stew clings to the misty autumn air, the sooty haze from burning charcoal grills attracting long lines of hungry customers.
On the other side of the booths, a second platform is crowded with onlookers, an auctioneer standing before a beautiful Amish quilt. An Amish auctioneer, if you’ve never seen one, doesn’t bear much resemblance to the mile-a-minute chatter of those at Englischer auctions. Our auctioneers don’t speak as quickly, and they almost can be said not to be speaking at all.
They sing.
In a rhythm that sounds like an old Southern turkey hunt tune, his voice slides and dips like an old fiddle. “Heeeeeey gimme twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five, theeeeere gimme thirty, there’s thirty-five, thirty-five...”
Hands go up and so do the prices.
Mamm and Daed approach the stage with Abram, who carries a wool sack of juggling balls and other tools of his trade. He says, “Wow, Sis, nice crowd! I think this’ll be my biggest audience ever.”
“They’re not here to see you, Son,” Daed reminds him. “Remember, we’re here for the community, not our own glory.” With that, he turns to me with something very strongly resembling a smile. “Are you ready, Hannah?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, checking that the oven is warming and all the supplies are within reach. “I guess we’ll be starting pretty soon.”
“They’re corralling the judges now,” Abram says. “Three people, all tourists. They’re gonna be blindfolded and everything.”
“That should keep it fair,” I say, “which I think is the best we can hope for. Speaking of that, has anyone seen Lilly around?”
My mamm says, “You don’t really think she’d try to sabotage your pies twice? And not at a time like this?”
“I don’t want her anywhere near my pies, that’s all I’m saying. I get through this with no trouble from her, that’ll go a long way toward being able to trust her again. But today’s not the day to take that risk.”
Simon steps up behind me. “She won’t do a thing, she promised.”
I turn to Simon, not prepared for my own creeping sense of jealousy. “You’ve been consulting with her about this in private, have you?” They were lifetime best friends growing up, after all.
Simon chuckles and shakes his head. “Jessup, she promised Jessup. Anyway, he said he’d keep an eye on her too, just in case.” He gives me a little kiss on the cheek. “Got you covered, Hannah.”
Daed says, “We’re going to see if we can find your sister and the Thompsons.”
Ruth Thompson? I want to say. Good. When you find her, do me a favor and keep her far away from me too. I’d rather have Lilly standing behind me with a beaker of arsenic.
But instead of all that, I simply smile and say, “Enjoy,” which in a lot of ways is almost as good.
“Excuse me?” I turn from the stage to see a chubby man in his forties, an Englischer from his wedding ring and stubbly cheeks. “You’re Hannah Troyer?” I shake my head and he goes on: “Daniel Gostan, the Bedford County Herald. Do you have a moment for an interview?”
I look around. With no sign of anyone to officiate the bake-off, I do have some time to share with this reporter. I nod and shrug and he lifts an iPhone toward my face.
“I don’t need to make a call,” I say.
He chuckles. “It’s a recording app. So, what’s your strategy for winning this bake-off today?”
I give it only a little thought. It doesn’t take much. “I’ve already done some work on a new recipe, so my strategy, as you put it, will be to recreate it as well as I can, and leave the rest up to God.”
“And how long have you been baking Whoopie pies?”
“Since I was very small, I used to help my mother in the kitchen from the time I could walk.”
“And what made you want to propose this bake-off in the first place?”
I twitch to hear this. “It wasn’t my idea at all, actually.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Adler...Grace, your competitor, she said you were the one who challenged her.”
Now I start giving my answers a bit more thought. I’ve never been interviewed by a reporter before, and it’s an experience that can have numerous hidden pitfalls. And I feel like I’m stumbling into the first of many.
This is why I shied away from doing this, I think to myself. It’s reporters like this that blow things way out of proportion; not just here, but on TV, the internet, all over the world. There never seems to be any kind of free press in the Englischer world; somebody always has to pay. Still, it’s too late to go back now.
I smile at the reporter. “Well, challenge is a strong word. I invited her to participate, and she and I agreed that this would be a great way to raise money for both our communities.” I see Olaf and two other men approaching the stage, which I hope and pray is my cue to end the interview so the contest can begin.
I decide to end the interview either way.
“Oh, looks like I’ve gotta run. Thanks!”
With that, I join Grace to greet Olaf and the others as they walk toward the center of the stage, where a microphone stand awaits. Olaf says to us both, “Ready, ladies?” We exchange a nervous glance and a reassuring nod before Olaf turns toward the mike, feedback leaking out of the big speakers set up on the sides of the stage.
Olaf points to one of the two men by his side and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...from the Pennsylvania Board of Education, Superintendent Newton Erickson.”
The crowd cheers as Superintendent Erickson, a distinguished, clean-cut man in a dark blue suit, waves at the crowd of his constituents.
“Welcome, everyone, to the York / Lancaster Whoopie Pie Bake-off!” The crowd cheers and a nervous nausea curls in my stomach. Superintendent Erickson goes on: “Our two contestants will be baking their pies right here on this stage, to be judged by three impartial judges, who even now are enjoying a fine lunch, courtesy of vendors from both Lancaster and York counties.” He turns to us, still speaking into the mike.
“May I present, from Lancaster County, Hanna Troyer!” I smile and give just a little curtsy as they applaud. “And, from York County, Grace Adler!” Grace offers a demur little wave to her applauding fans.
Superintendent Erickson turns to us. “If you’re both ready...” He pauses, letting the suspense hang in the air just a bit before saying, “Ladies, start baking!”
Grace and I both begin mixing our cake batters first. I’m pretty focused on what I’m doing, so I don’t have the time or attention to spare to watch Grace. And, frankly, I’m hoping she’s just as focused on her own baking as I am on mine. If she beats me without even having to concentrate, that’ll be even worse!
I pour my soda into the bowl with the batter and I can feel people watching me from the crowd, some shaking their heads and whispering to one another about my unconventional choice.
That’s when I notice Rebecca and Beau standing near the stage, the frowning Ruth and the smiling Samuel behind them. Ruth is glaring at me, twitching, watching me mix the soda into the batter. It’s hard to tell if she’s offended or frustrated by my innovation, or if that
’s just her usual scowl.
It hardly makes a difference. I have to exert a special effort to block her from my mind, even turning slightly so she’s no longer in the corner of my eye.
But I’m glad to have Rebecca here, cheering me on, so to speak. We spent so many years under the same roof and yet barely knew each other. Now that I’ve moved out we’ve become a lot closer, and that’s something I am truly grateful for. So if winning this contest can help my sister out, maybe wipe the sneer off that old crone Ruth’s face, then I’m eager to do it and to give it all I’ve got.
I don’t want to let anybody down, Rebecca least of all, because she is needier than the rest.
I notice Abram standing not far off, juggling four solid-color billiard balls in one hand to the crowd’s delight.
Abram, I think to myself. He’s at the other end of the spectrum. Give him a childhood of oppression, an angry father, and a disinterested mother, and he still comes out of it juggling. No matter what life throws at him, he’ll just keep juggling.
I spoon out my batter onto the parchment-lined cookie sheet and slide it into the oven, then turn to start making my filling.
“Hannah! Hannah?” I turn at the familiar voice, unable to pretend I can’t hear her.
“Hello, Lilly.” I smile to see Jessup with her, and I hope that smile is a reminder of where she shouldn’t be, and what part Jessup was supposed to play in keeping Lilly away from the stage.
And he seems to understand that, as he smiles hopefully at me and says, “S’okay, Hannah, we just wanted to wish you luck.” He looks at Lilly, “Isn’t that right, Lilly?”
“Absolutely,” she says, “what else?”
What else indeed, I think to myself.
But she goes on, “We want you to know you made the right choice to participate, that the folks all really think you’re towing the line. Win or lose, you’re doing the right thing. The children will thank you, if no one else.”
That grabs my attention. “If no one else? How do you mean that, Lilly? Why wouldn’t anyone else thank me?”
“Hannah, calm down, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Lilly says, her voice lower, almost a whisper. “We’re all with you, that’s all I’m trying to say.”
I stand staring at her, the frozen bowl warming by the second in my hands. “All right, well, thank you, Lilly, I appreciate that. Sorry if I snapped, I’m just a little pressed for time.”
“Of course, of course,” Lilly says, “you get back to what you’re doing. Good luck, we’ll see you at the finish line!” They sink back into the crowd and I turn back to my filling.
This has to be the best filling I’ve ever made, I tell myself, that anybody’s ever made. That’ll quiet Lilly up some, maybe make a batch of filling so thick that it glues her tongue to the roof of her mouth!
I chuckle to myself and then get back to the filling.
Time is running out.
I take the cakes out, turn up the heat, brush them with the melted sweet butter I have waiting, then slip them back into the oven. I notice this gets Grace’s attention, and not only hers. The crowd is filled with people who are Whoopie pie experts, either from the baking or the eating standpoint, and this isn’t the first unconventional move they’ve seen me make today. I’ve got their attention, that’s for sure.
And that’s what worries me.
After a few minutes more, my cakes are done. I pull out the cookie sheet to let them cool and I finish stirring the batter. I dollop the filling onto the bottom cake, sprinkle the powdered mocha, then top the sandwich off.
As per the rules, I make only three and present each on its own plate.
Grace finishes her pies too, just as Superintendent Erickson approaches and takes center stage, and the microphone.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like our contestants are ready for the judging.” He turns to me and puts the mike into my face. “Mrs. Hannah Troyer, of Lancaster County, any thoughts on today’s contest?”
“Not really. It’s a beautiful day and I think we’ve both whipped up some tasty treats. What more can a person ask for?”
A smattering of applause rises up from the crowd as Superintendent Erickson turns to Grace. “Any thoughts from York County contestant, Grace Adler?”
Grace looks over at me. “Well, I would like to say that Mrs. Troyer...Hannah...is a warm and lovely person, and it’s been an honor to share this platform with her today.”
Applause greets her, and we share a smile that bespeaks of our mutual admiration.
“Okay then, let’s bring up the table!”
With that, two big men carry a mid-sized picnic table up to the stage, two others carrying three wooden chairs which they set behind the table. Two other volunteers lead the judges up onto the stage, and they wave playfully at the crowd.
The three judges sit in the chairs, two plates in front of each contestant, each cookie presenting a single Whoopie pie. In front of each plate is a white card with an A and a B written in black ink. Each judge also has a glass of cold milk. Superintendent Erickson holds the microphone up to the first contestant, a man in his mid-fifties, with a pronounced gut and greasy, balding hair.
“And what’s your name, sir?”
The judge says, “Barney,” his voice gruff, mucus-filled, “Barney Rauch, from Queens.”
“Barney Rauch from Queens, New York everyone,” Superintendent Erickson repeats into the mike as the crowd applauds. “And what brings you here today, Barney?”
Barney looks around and shrugs. “I was just visitin’, thought maybe I’d buy one of those bed quilts for my wife, she’s at home. Not feeling well.” After an indiscreet pause, he adds, “Bladder infection but...”
“Okay, Barney, that’s great,” Superintendent Erickson says with an uncomfortable smile as he steps behind him to the next contestant, a young woman in her late twenties. Although under her thick makeup, puffed-up and teased over hairdo, and all that gaudy plastic jewelry, it’s hard to tell.
Superintendent Erickson tries to say, “And what’s your name?”
But before he can get it out, she grabs the mike and says, too loudly and traced with feedback, “Christina Carapucci from Long Island!” The crowd applauds and Superintendent Erickson chuckles along with her. “Hey, Ma! I’m doin’ the Amish thing, yo!”
“I’m sure we don’t mean any disrespect there,” Superintendent Erickson says, moving over to the last judge, a woman who looks like she’s about eight hundred years old. “And you’re Dorothy Kalim,” he says. She nods grimly, saying nothing. “From all the way up in Maine, everyone! Nice to have you here, Dorothy.”
Dorothy just nods and barely that as the crowd applauds and Superintendent Erickson crosses back to Barney, the first judge. “Okay, Barney, now on those plates you’ve got two pies, one marked A and the other B. A is on your right and that’s the first one you’ll taste. Just so everyone’s clear, the pies are not in the same location every time, so one person’s A cake won’t necessarily be the other person’s A cake. Makes sense, right? Gotta keep things fair, right? Okay. Barney, take a bite of that cake on our left there, cake A.”
“Yeah, I get it already, cake A on my left.” Barney shrugs and picks up the pie from the plate on his left.
It’s Grace’s Whoopie pie, I can tell even from the distance of several feet and at an odd side angle. Barney chews it, staring off as he eats, no doubt asking himself if he likes it, how much he likes it and why.
“Barney?”
Barney keeps chewing, then sets down the remainder of the pie. “S’good. Flavor’s good, taste’s good. S’good.”
“What are you trying to say, Barney?” The crowd chuckles along with Superintendent Erickson’s joke. Barney looks around like none of us speak English. “S’good, I said!”
“Okay, great,” Superintendent Erickson says as Barney has a drink of milk.
Then Barney reaches for my pie. The suspense is killing me, and I know it’s only going to get worse. But this first o
ne, I realize, the initial reaction, too important to blow it...
Barney bites into my pie, his jowls rolling as he eats. Then he takes another.
Yes! I say to myself. He’s either a glutton for punishment, or just a glutton.
Superintendent Erickson asks, “Well, Barney?”
Barney nods enthusiastically, pointing at the half of my pie he returns to the plate. “S’better, this’s better.”
The crowd murmurs, excitement rising with Barney’s enthusiasm.
“What’d you like about it, Barney?”
Barney rolls his eyes, as if being pushed beyond his limit. “I dunno, s’just better, ‘at’s all. S’kinda, I dunno, crispy, and light, y’know? I dunno, y’know?”
“I think we know,” Superintendent Erickson says as he crosses over to Christina. “Christina, your turn.”
Christina takes a bite of the cake on her left, marked A. Her eyes roll in her head, her mouth dropping open slightly. “Oh...no! What is this thing? Who made this magical freakin’ thing I’m eating over here?”
The crowd chuckles as Superintendent says, “We can’t reveal that until after the contest, but, you like that pie you’re eating?”
“Do I? What are you, hard of thinking? Who wouldn’t love this? I am telling you right now, if you don’t love this thing, you are not a person, that’s all, I’m sorry...” I can’t help but chuckle a little myself. “The texture, the little bit of crunch to it, mixed with the cream...and the taste, it’s like coffee, right?”
Right! I think to myself. That’s two.
Don’t count your cheesecakes before they’re hatched, I remind myself. She hasn’t even tasted Grace’s cake.
Grace.
I look over at her, standing on the other side of the judges’ table, smiling nervously and looking much the way I imagine I must look.
“Try cake B, Miss Carapucci.”
But Christina Carapucci looks at the other pie, Grace’s Whoopie, and pokes at it with her brightly colored fingernail. Her overly made-up lips snarl in a contemptuous little frown. “No, that’s too heavy, too thick, I may as well strap that right to my butt! Sorry, this is the one.”
The audience chuckles as Christina goes back to finish eating my Whoopie pie. I glance at Grace again, and she looks over at me. She gives me a little wink and a nod.
Whoopie Pie Betrayal - Book 2 (The Whoopie Pie Juggler: An Amish of Lancaster County Saga series) Page 4