Baker's Coven Page 7

  “Blimey,” Arty exclaimed. “I had no idea those tiny green guys could do so much.”

  I laughed, and Arty thanked me and went to speak to Florence.

  Florence had ditched the strawberries and was making a rhubarb cake. Like the gooseberries, it had grown early this year and her new Italian friend from the deli had brought some over first thing this morning, picked fresh. She’d sweetened the fruit with a sticky elderflower cordial, and the delicious smell was traveling my way. At least I’d remembered to eat a big breakfast this morning. There was no chance of me becoming distracted by getting peckish.

  I stopped beating for a moment and watched how natural Florence was in front of the camera. She was so warm and confident. A born cookery show host. Her nails this week were an eggplant-black, and they caught the light as she furiously hand-whisked her mix. Even as she raved about the local rhubarb, she managed to slip in that her flour was specially imported from Italy. I could relax now that I’d said my piece and remembered everything I’d so carefully planned.

  I got back to my batter. Next I had to place the gooseberries in their honey syrup in the pre-lined tin before covering it with the sponge mix. Then, camera trained on me, I slid the tin into the oven. Phew. I took a moment to wish my baking well, just like always.

  I cleaned up my messy workstation and surveyed what everyone else was up to. Using seasonal ingredients was one of my favorite things to do in baking, but Britain didn’t have the best selection at this time of year. It was a tougher challenge than it seemed. I saw that Amara and Euan had played it safe and were using strawberries, but Amara really stood out with her inventive twist of flavoring the berries with pink peppercorns. It was such a cool combination. I wanted to try a mouthful myself.

  I wasn’t the only one using honey. Hamish was doing something super clever by incorporating parsnips into his cake, sweetened with honey, and topping it off with an elderflower cream-cheese frosting. I was intrigued, but it sounded like there might be too much going on there, flavor-wise. It was a bold move. I guess he’d gained a bit of confidence. Now that we were in our second week, people were getting into their stride. Personally, now that I’d accepted that I was actually part of a TV show that actual people were going to watch, I now couldn’t help but imagine what the voiceover might be saying as they edited our cooking segments. Was the voice explaining what makes a good sponge? Where we all might be going wrong but didn’t know it yet? It was difficult to gauge what the scene looked like when you were baking your heart out.

  I prepared to make some raspberry meringues, or “kisses,” as I was calling them, to decorate the outside of my cake. I separated the yolks and whites from six more of my happy eggs and put the whites, along with sugar, into the mixer. I set it to low and watched the mix like a hawk, waiting for stiff peaks to form that would still have a little bit of movement. When the whip was right, I crushed some freeze-dried raspberries, put the mix through a sieve, and then stirred the sweet fruity powder into the meringue. With the help of a pipe, I styled the meringue mix into little ‘kisses’ on a tray and then put the lot into the oven for thirty-five minutes.

  I checked on the sponge. It still had a bit of a shake in the middle, and I was scared if I took it out now, then the sponge would collapse when I flipped it. I’d know when it was ready when it didn’t shake. But even just a minute over that moment, and the sponge would start to dry out. Oven timing was critical. I had to get it absolutely spot on, otherwise my sponge would be liquid or the fruit would be overdone.

  “Oh no!” a voice cried out. When I turned, I saw Priscilla shaking her head at the oven. “It’s bubbling in there. Bubbling like a volcano. It shouldn’t be doing that. I don’t know what to do?”

  She looked ready to grab her tin out of the oven. Hamish stopped what he was doing and went over to help, peering through the glass door into her oven. “You’re fine. You’re fine. That’s the syrup inside getting hot. Don’t worry, my darlin’, it’s going to be okay.”

  “Ooh, I hope so, lovey,” she said, sticking her hands out in front of her. “Look at me. I’m shaking.” Naturally, a camera was trained on them. Those were the moments everyone loved. It was always my favorite part when I used to watch the baking contest. Back when I could be an armchair baker and judge. Oh, those were the days.

  Hamish put a friendly arm around her shoulders and walked her back to her workstation top. “You just concentrate on your topping now. Stay focused. You’ve got this.”

  I smiled. It was so nice when we helped each other. Unlike last week, with Marcus and Gerry’s macho standoffs, there was a palpable community spirit in the air. I genuinely wished the best for everyone. But of course, I also hoped my cake did well.

  The timer on my oven dinged and, nervously, I motioned to a camera that I was about to take out my cake. This was it. Putting on my oven gloves like I was going into battle, I removed the gooseberry upside-down cake and walked it to the counter. This was what scared me the most: I’d have to be brave…and flip it.

  So, of course, this was when the cameras homed in on me. Elspeth and Jonathon joined them, and so I had quite the audience. But at this point I was just thankful that neither of the comedians were there to make me the butt of their jokes. I tried to look relaxed for the cameras, but I knew that I was perspiring at the temples. Argh, how was my cake going to do when I myself was never the right temperature?

  Nervously, I ran a flat spatula around the perimeter of the tin to gently coax the sponge from its sides. Next, I took my pretty glass cake stand and held it on top of the tin. Was there a protection spell for upside-down cakes?

  “You’ve got this, Poppy,” Gerry said, standing behind Elspeth and for once not clowning. “Take your time.”

  Easy for him to say—he’d never have to worry about being nervous again. I looked up and caught Elspeth’s eye and immediately felt better. I raised the glass to the tin and, holding their sides, turned them in the air. Back on the worktop, I used my flat spatula again and worked the sides, just in case there were any goopy gooseberries in a sticky mood. There was nothing for it—I slowly, I mean, like slow-motion slowly, lifted the tin. And then I shut my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see if it was a disaster.

  “Yes,” Gerry said, sounding as pleased as though he’d scored a triumph. That gave me the courage to open my eyes again.

  I’m embarrassed to say that I jumped for joy. All caught on camera, of course. There was no sticking, no collapsing. I peeled away the circular piece of baking parchment and voila. A beautiful gooseberry upside-down cake.

  “Bravo,” said Elspeth, clapping lightly.

  “Pretty good, Poppy,” Jonathon added.

  I beamed.

  “Two minutes to go, bakers,” Jilly called out.

  I quickly arranged my mini raspberry meringues around my cake. And I was finished. I couldn’t believe I’d managed to pull all that off in the time limit. I stood back and admired my handiwork. So long as the flavors worked, I was actually proud of my cake.

  Around me, with a minute to go, there was panic in the air. Amara was slicing peppered strawberries so quickly, I was worried for the tips of her fingers; Hamish hadn’t even plated his sponge yet. Maggie had finished her raspberry Victoria Sponge, and Florence was finished, too, and watching everyone just like me. She caught my eye and blew me a kiss. “That looks gorgeous, Pops,” she said admiringly. I thanked her and returned the compliment. Her rhubarb concoction smelled and looked divine—pretty in pink.

  “Time’s up, bakers,” Arty called out. “Please bring your fruit cakes to the judging table.”

  As we all walked over and placed our offering before the judges, I couldn’t help but imagine a montage scene of close-up shots of our cakes. They were certainly beautiful to behold. Glossy and full of color. We’d upped our game this week, for sure. Gerry reappeared and mimicked stuffing his face. I tried not to laugh. We were going to have a serious talk very soon. When no one was around to witness it.

 
Once the cakes were in a row, Jonathon took a step forward.

  “Well done, bakers. You’ve successfully completed your first challenge. And no disasters. Or at least—not yet.”

  There was some nervous tittering at that. I mean, he couldn’t expect us to actually laugh at our worst fears, right?

  “First, we’re going to cut the cakes in half. This way we can see if anyone has attempted to hide a burned or sunken sponge.”

  There was a collective gasp, and everyone leaned forward in their chairs. Oooh, that devilish Jonathon. He didn’t let us get away with a thing.

  “We’ll be looking at the color and texture of your sponge to see how proficiently you mixed your ingredients,” Elspeth added. “We want to make sure it hasn’t been overbeaten or if you’ve been too heavy-handed with the butter. We want an even texture.”

  I think I held my breath for the full five minutes it took for Elspeth and Jonathon to eat their way through the table. The usual suspects received praise: Maggie and Florence both with glowing reviews and Amara up there with them. Sadly for Hamish, he didn’t quite pull off the parsnip mash-up, with Elspeth positively wrinkling up her delicate nose at the taste. And it was another difficult moment for Evie, who’d crumbled a bit under pressure last week.

  Her strawberry shortcake looked perfect, but in this case, beauty was only skin deep. “Your cake is a little soggy, dear,” Elspeth said.

  “And no one likes a soggy bottom,” Arty threw in.

  Evie went bright pink and began to turn her rings nervously on her fingers. The poor woman. My heart went out to her.

  My cake was last. And by that time, my nerves were stretched to their limit.

  As Jonathon raised a forkful to his mouth, I studied every reaction that crossed his face. And boy, I was not disappointed. His blue eyes lit up, his forehead raised in pleasurable surprise as a massive smile spread across his face. He liked it.

  And Elspeth was the same. “My goodness, this is quite delicious. Moist, tart and sweet all at once. And those crispy meringues are perfect with the soft gooseberries. It’s a marvel.”

  I was so happy, I didn’t know what to say. Gerry did a little victory dance. I tried not to giggle.

  There was a wait, always excruciating, while the judges conferred. And then it happened. They crowned my cake the winner. It was like time had sped up. Everything was spinny and surreal.

  Florence and Maggie were by my side, showering me in hugs, and the men clapped me lightly on the back and said what a good job I’d done. Gerry turned cartwheels across the tent.

  The only straight thought I had was how much I wanted to tell Susan. Her farm goods had been the real heroes today. I was certain that I had the happy eggs, contented bees and sheltered gooseberries to thank. I’d save her a piece of my cake and take it to her so I could tell her the good news. Just as soon as filming finished.

  The cameras hadn’t even stopped rolling when one of the cameramen whipped a fork out from his pocket and dug into my cake. “That’s fantastic,” he said. Jilly smacked his hands away and proceeded to cut my cake into slices for the crew and other contestants to try.

  I was floating on air when who did I notice but Sly, watching me from the entrance of the tent. And there was his orange ball his feet. He was as bad as Gerry for distracting me. I hoped he wouldn’t try to come in, then noticed one of the crew arrive with some rope and tie him up where he could see us but not interfere. He seemed happy to watch me, as though he knew perfectly well that as soon as I was free, he’d have his ball-throwing slave back.

  When the break was called, I made sure to get a piece of my cake, then slipped away and over to the lunch table. I took a roast beef sandwich and, removing the meat, went to Sly. “There you are, my sweet boy,” I said. “You eat this up, and later I’ll find you a juicy bone.” He gobbled up the treat and then nudged the ball with his nose in my direction. He had a completely one-track mind. “Later,” I promised him.

  I noticed that a few locals had come out to watch the show being filmed. They had to stay behind a barrier, but it was cool being a token celebrity as they snapped photos of the famous tent. I recognized a very pretty girl who was one of the kitchen helpers at the big house. Gerry was trying to look down her shirt, but all he accomplished was making her shiver and button her sweater up. Good.

  Eve was there, but I suspected she’d only come out for a bit of fresh air. Beside her was the silver fox who Susan Bentley had been visiting yesterday afternoon. As I watched, he said something to Eve, and she laughed. They chatted for a few minutes. I was glad that she knew him so I could find out who he was and if Susan Bentley had an interest outside the home.

  Honestly, I’d only been here two weekends, and I was already becoming fascinated by the village and its gossip.

  The salesman from the pub, Bob Fielding, was also watching. Then he glanced at his watch and turned to take the path to Broomewode Hall. And good luck to you getting in. I was about to head back when I saw the horrible gardener, Peter Puddifoot, come stomping over, looking annoyed. But maybe that was his normal expression. I’d never seen him look anything but annoyed.

  I immediately went to pet Sly, determined to protect the dog from further violence, but it seemed Mr. Puddifoot wasn’t after the dog. He went by the viewers, telling them to move off the lawn and onto the gravel path. He acted like the lawn belonged to him.

  Well, if he terrorized the show’s onlookers, it meant Sly was safe and I could return to my workstation.

  Chapter 7

  It was time for the second challenge of the day. Truthfully, I was more in the mood for celebrating in the pub than baking—and I hadn’t been looking forward to making madeleines. I didn’t get the obsession with these small French sponge cakes. Yes, the fact that they were shaped like a shell was pretty darn cute, but apart from that, I didn’t think they were anything special. And they were so easy to burn.

  We all had to follow Elspeth’s classic recipe, and put our own spin on it, and this intensified the pressure. I didn’t want to let Elspeth down now, not when the morning had gone so well. But at least this challenge wouldn’t take as long as the fruit cakes. I was riding the high of the morning and couldn’t wait to be done filming for the day. Celebrating couldn’t come soon enough.

  Before we began, I wanted my hair and makeup touched up. Okay, I wanted an excuse to let Gina rave about my win. I had to patiently wait for her to finish re-powdering Jonathon’s perpetually shiny nose before it was my turn. I was absolutely dying to run through every detail of my win.

  The minute she finished, Gina waved me over, manically brandishing a blusher blush.

  “Pops! My baking superstar. How lucky I am to have known you since you were a little kid, always licking the bowl when Dad finished making cakes.”

  I laughed. “I really do have your family to thank for giving me the gift of baking.” I grew emotional as I always did when I thought about how important Gina and her family had been in my life. They’d literally saved me, discovering me in a box outside the family’s bakery when I was only a few hours old. They’d been part of my life ever since.

  She hugged me, then ushered me into her makeup seat. As she re-glossed my lips and tidied up my brows, she told me that the entire crew couldn’t stop talking about my cake over lunch.

  I grinned. “It’s still sinking in, to be honest. After everything that happened last week…well, it’s nice to have something to celebrate.”

  Once Gina had prettified me and got the flour out of the back of my hair (mortifying), the new soundman, Robbie, came over to attach my mic. He said he wasn’t long out of college and was extremely happy to have this job. He was chatting away about his new motorcycle, but I was already thinking ahead to madeleines. I discovered that having the winning cake in the morning only made me more anxious not to screw up in the afternoon.

  Soon I was back at my station, dutifully weighing out my ingredients according to Elspeth’s recipe. Here was the sneaky thing. We got
the list of ingredients, but no clues on how to make the madeleines. We were on our own. Sugar, flour, baking powder, butter, two more happy eggs, and a little lemon juice. It looked easy, but I knew that the talent was in the making, the subtleties of how we each manipulated the same ingredients. I had to whisk the eggs and sugar together until they were perfectly frothy, and that was something you could only judge by eye and experience. When this was done, we would leave them to stand for twenty minutes before carefully pouring them into a madeleine tray.

  Naturally, we were never allowed to rest. We were each to add a bit of whimsy or slightly different flavors to our madeleines. Since the little cakes originated in France, I decided to use lavender along with the lemon in my mixture. In the twenty minutes the batter rested, I prepared my icing. I was going to pipe a tiny Eiffel Tower of chocolate on each one.

  I took a moment to look around the room and see how everyone else was doing. I must have been concentrating harder than I’d thought, because there was some kind of drama happening at the other end of the tent, and I could hear the first gut-wrenching beginnings of a sob. I left my workstation and headed over to the crowd of cameras and both comedians, not that there was anything to joke about. It was Evie. She was crying next to a bowl of spilled batter. It ran all along her workstation and onto the tiled floor. This was pretty much everyone’s worst nightmare.

  “Don’t worry,” Maggie was saying. “Just take some deep breaths and you can start again.”

  “But I don’t have time,” she wailed. “What’s wrong with me? Why do I crack under pressure like this? I make madeleines for my colleagues at the hospital all the time. I can do it in my sleep.”

  My heart went out to Evie. It was so hard keeping it together when you knew that the cameras were watching your every move. She was using orange juice instead of lemon, and I offered to cut her oranges and redo her juice. Maggie handed her a tissue, and she blew her nose with a loud honk. I hoped for her sake the series producers would edit that out. She took a deep breath and then weighed out some flour again.