Chapter Nine

 

"How much do you really know about working in a kitchen?" Michael asked Kimmie. "Seriously."

She tilted her head to one side, as if thinking. "I know what this is," she said, holding up a spatula from the cooking utensils on the manor's kitchen table. She was doing 'a bit' and one that we'd all heard before, which explained the disgust that crossed Michael's steely gaze.

He scoffed. Kimmie shrugged. "Not for lack of trying," she said. "Remember the Easy-Bake oven? I think it came with some of these tools and I used them ... just tiny and in plastic."

"Your lava cake was probably partly correct," I said, trying to be encouraging "It's not as if Harriet spit out the bite she took."

"All but," said Kimmie, ruefully. "Oh — I watched an internt video on making scones once," she said. "It looked super simple. But the ingredients sort of separated in the oven."

I could tell Michael wasn't loving this, but he had signed up already, probably because Kimmie's pitiable state and a glass of wine had softened him at dinner last night. He wouldn't abandon it now, no matter what he might be tempted to do when faced with Kimmie's lack of kitchen savvy.

Would it be enough that she was cute and weirdly charming in her own way? She was already getting into the spirit of this exercise, tying a daisy-print kitchen apron over her striped jersey and skirt, and pulling her long black hair back in a ponytail. As Michael flipped open his recipe box — looking churlish — Kimmie slipped off her colorful rings and bracelets, sneaking a look to see if he noticed this bit of kitchen foresight.

I was trying to think of something more helpful I could say to improve the tension, but Kimmie spoke up first. "Look, I know I seem hopeless, but I'm a quick learner. And I do have instincts about things — if I make a mistake but I know the material, I can compensate for it. I have skills that could help in the kitchen if I can learn how to use them for cooking and not comedy. Just teach me the basics, that's all I ask."

"Just the basics," Michael repeated. "Like flour and sugar. Rising agents. Baking temperatures." He ticked them off one hand, but not to be helpful.

"If those are the basics, sure," she said, brightly. She dropped that tone before she spoke again, and serious Kimmie emerged from underneath the cheery persona. "Just ... I want to bake a pan of biscuits that come out of the oven and surprises people in a good way."

He inhaled, deeply, which had a sharp sound as it traveled through his nostrils. He turned and flipped the cards, five or six ahead, then pulled out one. "This recipe," he said. "Simple, no-fuss, virtually impossible to ruin if you pay attention to the dough."

He laid it on the table, a recipe for Michael's lavender lemon biscuits, which had a shortbread-style crumble and crushed nuts baked within for textural contrast. Having eaten them many times, it seemed a little advanced for Kimmie — a little intimidating — but when I glanced at Michael, he didn't seem to notice.

He placed a bowl in front of Kimmie, then one in front of me — possibly because of those remarks about my gingerbread at dinner last night. "I'm just here to watch," I said, pushing it aside.

Michael moved it back. "As much as you complain about your cooking? Here is your chance. No more dry biscuits or crumbly dough."

I thought about resisting. When in Rome. I left the bowl where it was — maybe Dinah had never been able to fix my instincts, but Michael's intimidation might scare them into existence. Either way, it wouldn't hurt to play along, as moral support for Kimmie if nothing else.

He passed out mixing spoons, then reached for the flour. "First step, the dry ingredients," he said. "Measuring's important. You need to be precise. Don't guess, do it exactly as it says on the card."

Kimmie was attentive as he showed her how to measure the flour and rising agent, then how to cream butter and sugar together, pointing out it was important for the butter to be softened to room temperature, but not liquid, and that a hot stovetop or microwave could not be substituted for this step.

"So I can't just give it a quick second in the oven?" she said.

"Not if you don't want a disaster like before, with your biscuits separating while baking," said Michael. "For this recipe, it won't work." He held up a lemon zester. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"A tiny little cheese grater?"

"No. Watch." He reached for a lemon, showing her how to grate the peel and not the bitter white rind inside it. Kimmie copied his movements exactly. Things were going well, so she was beginning to relax a little, and so was Michael. I felt better, too, although I had some tiny lumps in my wet ingredients that I couldn't quite smooth. Even with Michael's help, maybe I was still hopeless.

The next ingredient was dried lavender, which Michael had steeped in a special, mildly-sweet liqueur that was his own concoction. "Now — we only add a small bit," he said, measuring it carefully. "Too much, and the lavender overtakes everything and ruins the biscuit. If we don't add enough, we won't get the hint of it to balance the lemon, which is what we want."

"Is this a secret ingredient?" Kimmie asked, after stirring the lemon through the dry ingredients, as instructed, and adding the spoonful of lavender essence.

"No," he said. "There aren't any secrets to this recipe."

"I thought all great recipes have secret ingredients," she said. "You know, the pinch of cinnamon, or the little bit of cayenne that nobody knows is there."

"Who said this is a great recipe?" Michael answered, with the barest hint of a smile.

"You're a great cook, so it must be a great recipe," she answered. "Your gateau last night? I eat in London restaurants — lots of them — really posh ones, even. I can't think of one that could come close to that cake."

"That was nothing," said Michael, dismissively. "A simple chocolate cake with some wild cherry preserves."

"Yeah, but that's not what it tastes like," she said. "That's what makes it 'proper magic.' I'm not trying to develop that sort of mad skill, but if just a tiny bit of your power would rub off on me, I wouldn't refuse it."

Michael's smile had become a little more of the friendly one I knew was underneath that gruffness.

"Where did you learn to cook?" she asked. "Were you just genius from the beginning, or did it develop? Was it in the genes?"

"I come from a family of good cooks," he said. "But I didn't like it until I was nearly grown. I learned to make things I liked to eat, then I taught myself to make things I'd always wanted to eat. Before I knew it, I worked nights in a kitchen on the Seine's right bank while in culinary training by day."

"I never knew that about you," I said to Michael, as I pulverized my pecans, as instructed by him a moment ago.

"You never asked the question," he said, in his usual manner. "Pour the dry ingredients into the butter — not all at once, but one third at a time — now use the spatula to push them together, gently."

We sloshed in the first round of flour less gracefully than Michael did, then began incorporating the ingredients — or mushing them clumsily — the way he instructed. When all else failed, we used our hands to push the dough into a sticky ball, which Michael's perfect one didn't need. Kimmie and I giggled, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Here." He tossed us each a kitchen towel for our sticky fingers. "Next step, rolling the dough."

"Do we use the little cutters?" she asked. "Do we make shapes? I love shape biscuits."

"Then this step will make you very happy," he said, passively, as he thumped his dough onto the table's floured surface, with his usual abrupt strength. Kimmie followed suit, sending up a cloud of flour that powdered her apron and her face. With a puff of breath, she blew some of it away, then smiled.

"Sorry," said Michael. "That part isn't necessary."

"And here I was, thinking it was part of the process," said Kimmie. "Sort of a flattening of the dough."

I slid mine out more carefully, with a better awareness of what happens when flour and dough meet. We rolled it into ovals, the thickness Michael instructed us, showing us how to measure using the tip of our thumbs. He cut his with a small, circular cutter, but Kimmie chose one with a scalloped edge.

"Could I use a cute little biscuit cutter with more shape to it?" she asked. "Like, a shell or a star?"

"If you don't mind crisp edges," said Michael. "This dough is like a shortbread, so it holds its shape better for molds than ones that rise — but because it crumbles, with the flour content and the crushed nuts, it can be fragile along the edges, and lose context."

"Context?"

"Shape," said Michael. "Julianne, roll out the end of your dough thinner. The unevenness of the biscuit thickness will make the baking time uneven."

"Sorry," I said, correcting it with a few pushes of his French rolling pin, one without handles, more like a big wooden dowel. "Better?" I cut one with a diamond cutter and showed it to him for inspection. He nodded curtly.

He slid three small baking sheets into the oven, and showed Kimmie its setting. "Watch them closely," he instructed us. "The timer is set for five minutes, but they will bake longer. Never trust the temperature or the time on a recipe completely — it needs checked."

"That sounds like an instinct thing, something you have to practice," said Kimmie, wiggling the fingers in her clasped hands. "Is it about the golden color on the bottom or the crispy edges?"

"You? Try the golden color," said Michael. This was a joke because of her history of burnt bakes, and Kimmie realized it. A tiny smile — a rueful one — crossed her lips.

"Fine," she said. "I'll try to lift one without breaking it in half."

"No gooey centers this time," I reminded her.

She bent low and peered through the oven door. "It's amazing how people figured out this sort of thing," she said. "How to make stuff mix together and become actual food. Do they teach you that at culinary school?" she asked Michael.

"A bit. I think they teach it in history," he answered, mildly.

She sighed. "I hope these don't burn. Or crumble. Did they seem crumbly? I'll bet those are the type that burn the quickest."

"Don't watch them every second," he said. "You'll drive yourself mad. Plus, you'll take them out early and spoil them."

"I told you this wasn't my talent, even if I am a quick learner," said Kimmie, straightening her back again. "Maybe comedy and cooking are meant to be mortal enemies."

"You have talents besides being funny, I would imagine," I said, dusting off my apron's skirt.

"Performance art is my life," answered Kimmie, flippantly. "I'm totally devoted to it. Ask Pet. Ask anybody, actually. It's not my only talent, but it's my strength. Nobody cares about the others — but sometimes they're useful in comedy."

"What are the others?" asked Michael, as he gathered up our kitchenware for washing.

"You really want to know?" Kimmie responded.

"I asked, didn't I?" He piled our spatulas in his bowl.

"All right. I can play a tin whistle," she said. "Like every good little schoolchild who learned musical scales. I can make bookshelves out of cardboard boxes. I can whistle in two languages." She winked at me. "I can dance."

"Like a schoolchild also?" said Michael, smiling.

"No, I can really dance," she said. "See?" She stepped away from the table and showed off a few jazz tap steps. She braced her hands on her hips and clogged like an Irish dancer, finishing with a flourish.

"Wow," I said, clapping. "That's really good." Even Michael looked impressed.

"Four years of ballet, then two years of tap, and a couple of classes in step dancing," she said. "It was supposed to make me graceful." She untied her apron and slipped it off. "So see? I'm not totally without surprises."

"No," said Michael, without his usual gruffness. Behind him, the timer beeped, and Kimmie sprang to the oven, turning on its light.

"Please be golden, please be golden," she said, as Michael retrieved a couple of oven mitts and a metal spatula. Kimmie lifted one, peering underneath. "It looks pale," she said. "Is that pale?"

"Too pale," he said. "Close the door."

We waited another few minutes, then Kimmie tried again. "It looks ... brown?" She flickered her gaze to Michael, whose expression didn't give anything away.

"Well?" Suspense was killing her. Michael nodded.

"It's ready," he said. Eagerly, she opened the door and slid out the biscuit trays, doing another little dance as she set them on the counter's trivets. Carefully, she moved them to a baking rack, only breaking two in the process. She cast a guilty glance at Michael, who shrugged.

"How long until I can taste one?" she asked.

"Let them cool. These are meant to be eaten at room temperature — they're not chocolate chip cookies from television commercials in the States," he said.

"I'm dying to know," she said, fanning one of them with a cooking magazine Michael had left by the cookbook shelf. "I just want to be sure it doesn't taste of something weird — like salt, or burnt flour, or something else horrible I might've done to them."

"They won't," said Michael. "Worst case? Too little lemon. If so, you add another half spoonful."

When the moment arrived, Kimmie nibbled a bite from one of her biscuits, tentatively. "Mmmm," she said. "It's good. It's actually good. Let me eat one of yours," she said to Michael, reaching for a biscuit from his pan and snapping a bite out of it. "Amazing. They taste almost exactly alike."

"They should," he answered. He reached over and handed her a lemon from the fruit bowl and a tiny bottle of the lavender liqueur. "You'll need these to make it again. And this —" he handed her a copy of the recipe card. "Remember —"

"Use my eyes and not just the time on the card," said Kimmie. "I remember." She tapped its corner against her forehead. "I told you I'm a very fast learner."

Michael's smirk was one of good humor. "All right," he said. "You'll need one of these, too." He reached for the pile of little biscuit cutters, for the scalloped circle.

"Actually, I think I'll find my own," said Kimmie. "Thanks for the offer."

She ate another biscuit from her pan of them. "It's just amazing," she said, with a moan. "Thank you so much." She squeezed Michael's arm. "I'll practice, I promise. I'll ask the landlady at the inn to let me use her kitchen. Pet will have no idea." She gathered up her things. "The contest is the day after the second challenge's announcement — come and watch me."

Afterwards, he boxed the leftover biscuits. I pulled off my apron and laid it beside Kimmie's. "Thanks," I said to Michael.

He shrugged. "It wasn't so bad," he answered.

I took a bite of my own biscuit, finding it was a little dry, but not too bad. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

 

___________________

 

Announcement day for the second baking challenge was held at the marquee, which would be where it took place. Kitty and I were there extra early as usual, for any last-minute adjustments that needed to be made before filming began. Kimmie and Pet's comic bit was filmed first, but my eye was on the large television monitor set up behind them and the wireless computer station positioned off camera in the 'behind the scenes' zone created by a folding screen backed with layers of sheer summer drapery. It wasn't here for decorative purposes.

The two judges were stationed in the middle of the tent, surrounded by the judge's station, the monitor behind them featuring the program's famous logo.

"Welcome back," said Pierre to the contestants. "We are pleased to have you here with us for the announcement of the second challenge in this competition."

"This challenge is like no other in the history of The Grand Baking Extravaganza, in the fact that it has not been set by the judges or the producers, but by the fans themselves," said Harriet. "We promised a surprise, didn't we? And what could be a better challenge in a competition devoted to wedding cakes than asking each of our contestants to design — and construct — a real-life couple's wedding cake?"

I heard some gasps from the contestants. Harriet smiled.

"Five real-life couples who are fans of the program have been chosen to submit their wedding themes to us, and each one has been assigned to one of the contestants. You will design a wedding cake that fits their wishes, and present it to them via satellite. On a scale of one to ten, they will judge how close the design comes to their expectations — but the final decision lies with Pierre and I, who will choose the winner based on the couple's verdict, the wedding's criteria, and, of course, the quality of the bake."

"The winner's design will be the wedding cake for the happy couple on the day of their marriage," said Pierre. "And, of course, they will be in an excellent position for winning the competition."

"Let's introduce our first couple to their baker, assigned at random," said Harriet. "Lana, please step forward."

The video turned on, revealing a smiling couple on a sofa with two dogs. "Hello, Grand Baking Extravaganza," they called out. "We're Mark and Melinda, and we absolutely love your show. We're so excited you're going to design a cake for our wedding!"

The bride spoke up by herself. "We're planning a wedding next spring in London, with a party for our guests at a very posh hotel," she said. "Our wedding theme, if you can call it that, is really very modern and metropolitan. The hotel's decor is very modern, and my dress is simple white satin."

"We really love the look of the city skyline — you know, the lights after dusk, the sort of modern majesty of skyscrapers," continued the groom. "I work in the city in the financial district, and Mel grew up in a flat designed by one of the city's best contemporary architects. Most of our friends live in the city, which is why we chose it."

Footage played of the venue, a hotel that reminded me a little of the sleek sophistication of Alexi and Ravi's choice, along with pictures of the bride's gown, the cityscape with Mark's financial firm with a glimpse of the Tower bridge. My eye latched onto details — chrome, steel, smooth lines, Art Deco period paintings on the wall.

"We can't wait to see your design!" The couple waved goodbye, and Lana stepped back, looking as if her brain was already working in full gear.

"Next, if you please, Dinah," said Pierre.

I thought she looked pale as she stepped forward. Another couple appeared, this one sitting in a patio garden with Zen-like landscape architecture.

"Hello Grand Baking Extravanza! We're Sue and Carl, and we're so excited to be part of the program!"

"Our wedding's decor and setting was inspired by our love of gardens, particularly this Japanese one where we're sitting, which is why it's where we plan to marry," said the bride, who had an American accent with a little bit of an Asian accent for certain words. "My mother was Japanese and I grew up in Kyoto. I loved the architecture, the history, and how beautiful it all was."

"I'm a landscape gardener by trade, so we actually met in these gardens when I landscaped the prayer temple," said Carl. "We have permission to have the ceremony there next summer, and the reception in the main garden, known for its traditional Asian plants and butterflies."

"We hope our wedding cake will be the one you design for us. We look forward to seeing it," said Sue. They waved goodbye and disappeared. I could see Dinah was definitely two shades whiter than before. Her smile wobbled slightly as she stepped aside, immediately replaced by her frown of concentration. I felt my pangs of sympathy for the contestants growing.

"Ewan, the next couple is yours," said Harriet, as the senior baker came forward. The video switched to a smiling couple with a waterfall behind them, and lily ponds like a handful of random circles scattered artistically, with lily pads and crystal globes floating on the surface.

"Hello from Dana and Kevin — we're standing in the water garden we designed here in Wales, the future site of our wedding!" They gestured to their surroundings.

And so it continued. Tal was next, with a couple who loved their country cottage in Sussex, and were marrying at a nearby country church. "We definitely love all things quintessentially English and quintessentially country," said the bride. Lucky break, I thought, because no contestant would be better at designing a cake with the 'country rustic' theme than the youngest baker.

"We're Sam and Tallie, Grand Baking Extravaganza, and do we have a challenge for you!" The next couple were posed in ugly Christmas jumpers. "Our plans to wed are currently set for next December, and our biggest hope is to have a gorgeous Christmas wedding — can you help us with our dream?"

I could tell that this theme caught Prue off guard, but only because her eyes widened slightly. Photos appeared of a huge Christmas tree covered in red, green, and gold baubles, and a cozy old pub's backroom with a fireplace and lots of antiques, decorated with greenery for a Christmas party.

"You have your assignments, and you have the weekend to prepare," said Pierre. "We look forward to judging your finished designs."

"Best of British to you all," said Harriet.