MORNING CONFESSIONAL
Producer: So, tell us what happened in the communal kitchen last night.
Rhett, sighing: Is this really interesting TV?
Producer: Our viewers are going to be curious as to how you ended up with fellow contestant Savannah in your arms.
Rhett: Are they? Okay, fine. I think this is going to be a letdown, though.
Producer: What happened?
Rhett: I was walking to the courtyard when I saw her standing on the kitchen counter in her sock feet. First off, gross. Who does that? But still, I thought it unchivalrous of me to let her die of a head injury before the competition even started. So, I waited and watched for a few seconds before, sure enough, she toppled over backward and was falling to the floor.
Producer: And you caught her?
Rhett, rolling his eyes: Yes. You saw me, right?
Producer: So, Rhett, is there something there? Do you think you might start a relationship with Savannah?
Rhett, pausing for a moment: I don’t do relationships.
* * *
SAVANNAH
I think I might throw up. That should go over well during a baking competition. Nothing says a “yummy dessert on the way” like a woman retching into a trashcan nearby.
We’re being taken to the industrial kitchen where most of the competitions will take place. I can feel the nervousness in the air. Or at least that’s the energy I feel. I have anxiety. Pretty bad anxiety, actually. I hide it well behind my smile, which is probably why I seem like the most positive person most people know.
As I step into the kitchen, I’m stunned. This place is huge!
The early morning sunlight floods through these huge skylights in the ceiling, casting a striking glow across the gleaming stainless steel surrounding us. Everything is polished and shiny like a brand-new penny. Well, if pennies were silver.
I can't believe how big this place is. It's so sprawling and industrial. It looks like a high-tech culinary arena, and it’s way better than any kitchen I've ever been in or worked in. Certainly better than the one in the grocery store where we can hardly get the microwave or the oven to work, and don't even get me started on the toaster.
Every station is a testament to modern baking, equipped with the latest in culinary technology. Brand-new mixers gleam like new cars on the showroom floor. Ovens are already humming softly in the background, just waiting for us to put something inside them. Rows of brand-new utensils are lined up with military precision at each station. I take in the grandeur of it all, the way the studio lights hang like distant stars above each station.
There are cameras mounted on silent tracks around the room. I assume they can move and capture any angle of us as we create drama for the television viewers. I can tell that the other contestants around me are either nervous like I am or are completely confident in their ability to send the rest of us home. There are murmured conversations that I can’t make out because I’m too focused on this kitchen’s beauty.
A few seconds later, Dan walks into the room with his wide grin and confident stride. He stands in the center of the kitchen and looks into the camera. I swear his teeth are a shade too white, and he has that demeanor of a ringmaster who is ready to show the audience the greatest spectacle of their lives.
"Welcome, bakers, to your very first challenge on The Baking Games," he announces, his excited voice echoing through the space. His clear and commanding voice seems to fill every corner of the kitchen. "Now today, not only are you starting your journey toward that big grand prize package, but you will also start to prove to yourselves and the world that you have the capability to be a top pastry chef."
My heart is racing in my chest. There's a mixture of anxiety and excitement, but mostly anxiety. I start to second-guess myself. How did I even get here? Why did I even think I was worthy of doing something like this? Maybe I should quit right now before I embarrass myself on national television.
Before I can think too hard, everybody around me starts clapping, so I just clap along, not knowing what we're clapping about. My hands are just mechanically coming together over and over, while inside, there’s a storm of anxiety raging. "Imposter," it tells me. "You're way out of your league."
But Dan's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts as he introduces our judges. There's Chef Alain Laurent, whose stern gaze and imposing presence are very well-known in the world of baking. He has uncompromising standards and makes the most innovative desserts I've ever seen.
Next to him is Tessa Brighton. She's an entrepreneurial powerhouse who owns a chain of trendy cake pop stores, which have made her super-famous online. From what I hear, people stand in line for hours just to get her cake pops, which she makes in all kinds of crazy combinations and decorations.
Marco Santini completes the trio. He’s a dessert influencer and globetrotter who goes on adventures around the world and makes viral videos showing various restaurants and bakeries he finds along the way. He has put many small-town bakeries on the map.
"These titans of the culinary world will be your judges," Dan says, sweeping his hand toward them with a flourish. "Their expertise is unparalleled, and they will expect nothing less from you than perfection."
Again, I hear murmurs of awe - and maybe anxiety - sweeping across my fellow contestants as the reality of all our challenges settles in. Not only will we be judged by these three people, but also by the audience who will expect an interesting show. For the first time, I realize that this isn’t just about baking but also about being entertaining. And I don't find myself to be all that entertaining. I wonder why they chose me for this.
"Your challenge, should you choose to accept it," he says, winking at the camera, "is to create one dozen unique chocolate truffles. Each one should be a masterpiece of flavor and a spectacle of design. Now, this is your reward challenge, and it will include your skills as a chocolatier and your ability to dazzle and charm the audience with elegance and sophistication. These dozen truffles will be no ordinary truffles. They must be fit for the most glamorous black-tie event."
He pauses for dramatic effect, letting the weight of the challenge sink into each contestant, and then turns back to us with a mix of mischief and encouragement. "Each truffle should be the perfect blend of flavor, texture, and visual appeal. I want you to think that you're making these for clientele at a high-end gala, mingling under chandeliers, everyone wearing evening gowns and sharp tuxedos. Your creations need to compliment a gathering such as that."
He gestures to a display table laden with exotic ingredients, luxurious flavorings, and various decorative elements. “You have at your disposal ingredients that range from the finest Belgian chocolate to rare spices and edible gold leaf. Your truffles should not only taste exquisite but look that way, too. You will have just two hours to complete this task. That clock will be relentless, so use all of your creativity and precision."
A large screen in the corner of the space suddenly lights up, displaying a countdown clock set to two hours. Its red digits are stark against the bright backdrop. I can feel the tension ratcheting up a notch.
"The winner of this challenge," Dan says, his voice rising with excitement, "will get an invaluable advantage at this week’s main challenge. You'll get thirty extra minutes, which could very well be the difference between victory and defeat. Although no one goes home during the reward challenge, someone will go home at the main challenge, so these extra minutes are critical.”
He points to where each of our stations are. I look at my station quickly, the array of tools and ingredients laid out like an artist's palette, and despite the turmoil inside of me, I suddenly feel a spark of determination. I know how to do this. I'm trained. I can do this. I have to. It's for Sadie.
Dan's next words snap back my focus. “Bakers, please take your positions." He holds his arm up in the air like he's standing on a racetrack, about to tell the cars to take off.
I move to the edge of my station. My heart is pounding in sync with the ticking clock. As I reach for my first ingredient, I realize this will be a real challenge.
"Let the games begin," he suddenly yells and slams his hand down on the corner of one of the stations as the timer starts up above.
I steel myself, ready to transform my fears into something sweet. I'm not just going to survive the competition; I will prove to myself and everyone else that I belong here among the best of the best.
* * *
RHETT
After the initial shock of how giant this kitchen is, I go to work on planning my truffles. As I do with every project, I start to sketch it out in a notebook that I always keep with me. I simply cannot make any food item without drawing it first. Call it some kind of a quirk or whatever you want, but it works for me. I draft them much like an architect drafts blueprints.
When the challenge starts, I spend the initial few moments sketching my designs and planning each detail because I want to win. I need to win. Maybe it’s ego, but I need this like I need blood in my veins.
My concept is inspired by the architectural elements of Art Deco. It's known for its rich colors, bold geometry, and decadent details, which will go well with these truffles. I want each of them to represent an Art Deco design.
They will be tiny edible sculptures. Some will be sleek and geometric to match the streamlined shapes of 1920s architecture, and then a few of them I will embellish with lavish ornamentations from the table, creating characteristics of the era, such as fans or chevron patterns. For my geometric truffles, I decide to incorporate a marbled effect, using dark chocolate and white chocolate to create sharp, contrasting lines.
After sketching, I get to work. I want these to be ornate and luxurious—the perfect dessert item for a black-tie affair. I might even use some of the gold dust and edible glitter from the table. They've given us a lot to choose from, which is nice. I don't always have these sorts of things at my beck and call out on the open ocean.
But just as I'm starting to focus on the delicate task of creating these truffles, with my hands working almost independently without my input, I notice something. Savannah is at the station next to mine, and I can't help but watch her. She's always been interesting to watch, even in school, the way that her fingers are so deft in the way that they mold the chocolate.
She’s petite, which is to say short, but she has long, slender fingers that are hypnotizing if you look too long. I can tell she's putting her heart into this challenge. I don't know much about her background. We haven't had long, deep talks about our hopes, dreams, and families, and I definitely don't want to.
But what's catching my attention is Connor, her ex-boyfriend, who is staring at her from across the room. His workspace is directly across from hers, and he's craning his neck as he watches her. He's pretending to look for his ingredients, but I can see what he's doing. His presence is like a dark cloud in this bright kitchen.
There's something about the way that he watches her that sets off my alarm bells. It's not just a casual observation; there's some kind of intensity there, suggesting that maybe he's not just watching her, but he's assessing her, planning something. I shake my head, trying to refocus myself. Why should I care if Connor has ideas about sabotaging Savannah? It is a competition, after all. Every contestant for themselves. If she gets tripped up by whatever he does, that's just one less baker I have to worry about in the race for the prize.
As I temper another batch of chocolate, I find myself looking back over at Savannah. She's deep into her work, not looking at anyone else. There's such an earnestness about her efforts that commands respect, no matter who she is. I can't help but admire it. Again, why do I care? We're competitors; we're supposed to be rivals. We hated each other in pastry chef school, and we've barely exchanged more than a few words, except for when I caught her falling off the kitchen counter last night.
But I don't like the thought of Connor playing dirty; it doesn't sit well with me. I don't like bullies. I might seem like a bully to some people, but I'm not. I'm just pointed, direct, and honest, but I don't bully others. And if Connor tried to sabotage or bully his ex-girlfriend, he would do anything to anyone in this competition.
I try to shake off the uneasy feeling and bury it under my work, but the discomfort lingers whenever I see Connor looking her way. It's more than just competitive spirit or some kind of fair play. He's watching her in a way that tells me he's planning something.
I force myself to turn my back and perfect my truffles. I am going to stay here. I want to win this round. But I also feel this unsettling realization that maybe I don't want her to fail completely, at least not at Connor's hands. It is a competition, and I'm ready to win at any cost, but not if it means that I'm watching someone like Savannah get sabotaged by an ex-boyfriend who's a complete jerk. Even if I don’t particularly like or understand her, I like him even less.
As the clock is ticking down, I set my last truffle on the tray and take one final glance at Savannah. She's finishing up. I can't tell what she did with her truffles, but she looks proud of herself. I can see her smiling. I turn and see Connor looking at her again, and this time, I force myself to make eye contact, lowering my eyebrows, a warning look on my face. He scoffs and turns around, returning to his work as if he did nothing, but we both know he's up to no good.
* * *
SAVANNAH
As I stand at my station, I wipe my hands on a towel and feel my heart racing in my chest. I have a mixture of nervous anticipation and dread. We just finished the reward challenge, so there's nothing else I can do but stand here and wait to be judged. It wasn't until now that I realized I don't like to be judged, but here I am anyway.
The judges—Chef Alain, Tessa, and Marco—begin their rounds. They start with Connor’s sleek, modern truffles. I can see them on the big screen in the corner of the room. His creations are displayed in high definition. Each truffle has a perfect glossy shine to it. They look like something out of a gourmet magazine. A knot tightens in my stomach.
For so long, I thought I was in love with Connor, but he has turned into a very negative, spiteful man. He glares at me momentarily as the judges walk to his station. I can't hear what they're saying, but he's smiling like a Cheshire cat, so apparently it's good.
I don't know why he has such a terrible attitude toward me. Yes, I broke up with him, but it was he who didn't want my sister around. Maybe we could have had a strong relationship, but not if he wouldn’t accept my sister in our lives regularly.
Finally, they turn up the volume so we can hear what the judges say at each station. Chef Tessa critiques Connor's flavor balance, which gives me some comfort and reminds me that appearance isn't everything.
Next, they move over to Rhett's station. His truffles are a stark contrast to Connor's. They're intricate and ornate, meticulous and creative. They're based on an Art Deco architecture theme, which I think is incredibly creative. As much as I couldn't stand him in culinary school, I still have to appreciate his talent.
I can see his sketchbook sitting on his countertop, and I crane my head a bit, trying to see what it is, but I can't see much. He always carried it with him in school, but he kept it very close to him so no one could ever see what he was writing or drawing.
Each one of his truffles is a tiny masterpiece of marbled chocolate and gold dust. I can feel his confidence even from here. I wish I had some of it.
Chef Alain praises Rhett's craftsmanship, but he mentions there's an overpowering amount of gold dust on the truffles. I breathe in a small sigh of relief. Even the best have their flaws, I guess.
Then it's my turn. My cheeks warm. It's one of those things that being a redhead does to you. I know my face must be very crimson-colored right now, but there's nothing I can do about it. The screen changes to my truffles. I have showcased different seasons in all of them.
A few are summer-themed with bright pink and green coloring. Others are fall-themed with intricate leaves painted on them and gold dust. The spring-themed ones have tiny flowers painted on them, and winter is dark and spattered with white edible dust like snow.
I'm proud of them, but seeing them next to Rhett and Connor's makes me feel like they might be too simplistic or childish. Perhaps I didn't realize just how talented the people around me are.
Marco compliments the concept, but he critiques my summer truffle and says it has too much thyme, making my stomach knot. I knew I should have been more restrained with it. Less is more when it comes to using herbs in baked goods.
Then Chef Alain looks at them, and my heart sinks when I see the expression on his face. “These are for a black-tie event?”
“Yes, sir. I was trying to think a bit outside of the box.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “Sometimes, the box is the right place to be, my dear.” And then they all walk away. I want to melt into a puddle.
As they move on to Lainey, I try to gather the little bit of confidence I have left. Her truffles are the epitome of luxury. They're covered in gold leaf and laced with exotic flavors. They even sparkle under the camera and look extravagant.
Tessa's feedback, however, highlights that Lainey's might be stylish, but the substance is not good. The combination of an odd truffle oil in a sweet setting doesn't go over well with her.
Finally, they reach Sophia, who has created Paris-themed truffles that steal the show. Everybody in the room immediately realizes that she will win this thing. Each one is a delicate balance of aesthetics and flavor, capturing the essence of Parisian charm.
Chef Alain smiles as he tries one of them. A few moments later, she is declared the winner of the round, and my heart deflates a little.
I stand there with a fake smile on my face, knowing that Sophia's victory is actually well-deserved, but it stirs a resolve in me. If I'm going to be here, away from my job and my sister, I’m determined to learn, improve, and gain more confidence. I want to win this thing.
Dan reminds us that the main challenge will be in a few days but that we will have some things to do between now and then. He doesn't tell us what they are.
I wipe down my station, still trying to shake off the feelings of inferiority.
"Focus, Savannah,” I whisper to myself. "It's not over."
I feel the room buzzing around me. That's what anxiety will do. But for now, I need to be happy for Sophia and double down on the fact that I have to figure out how to become one of the best and win the prize at the end. It's all for my sister, and I just have to keep that in mind.