RHETT
That mortifying question from Dan about Savannah and me is still ringing in my ears as the challenge kicks off. Why in the heck would viewers think there was anything romantic going on between us? We can barely stand to be in the same room most of the time. What kind of a vibe are we giving off that American viewers think something is happening?
I shake my head, trying to force myself to put it out of my mind. I need total concentration right now to knock this ambitious chocolate sculpture out of the park. Only three hours to create this intricate masterpiece that somehow looks like it's moving. That's way easier said than done.
I pick up my sketch pad and start drawing, which is always the first thing I do before I create anything. It's just part of my process. Although some other people think it’s strange, I need to see it on paper to make sure that what's in my mind can actually be created.
The base of this will be a solid, wide disc that anchors the piece. From there, the tornado will spiral upward, growing thinner and thinner and more twisted as it reaches the top. I hope to add some debris and smaller elements like branches and leaves to give it a realistic look. That will add the needed illusion of movement.
Once I have the design clear in my mind, I start the process of tempering the chocolate. I need it to be perfect. It has to be glossy, smooth, and strong enough to hold the shape I have in my mind. I carefully melt the chocolate, bringing it to just the right temperature before I cool it on the marble slab and then reheat it slightly. This process requires precision, but it calms me. I enjoy the repetition.
As the chocolate cools to the perfect consistency, I prepare the molds for the base and the initial spirals of the tornado. I pour the chocolate into the molds and make sure to get rid of any air bubbles that could weaken the structure. While the base sets, I will start on the tornado's body. I use a rotating platform and begin building the spiraling structure. I pipe the chocolate in a continuous motion, starting wide at the base and gradually tightening the spiral as I move upward.
Every layer needs to harden a bit before I can add the next to ensure stability. I use a hairdryer on the lowest setting to cool the layers faster without causing them to crack. Once I turn on the hairdryer, pretty much everybody in the kitchen turns to look at me, wondering what I'm doing. I will use anything at my disposal to win this.
As the tornado takes shape, I add those smaller details to enhance the sense of motion. Thin strands of chocolate are draped around the sculpture that look like swirling winds. I attach my pieces of debris, which are tiny branches and leaves that I've made out of fondant and dark and white chocolate, making them appear as if they're being sucked into the vortex. All of it is intricate work. I can't believe this is week one. What will the other weeks be like? I use tweezers to place the elements precisely.
The kitchen around me is just a blur of activity, but I stay focused on my own creation. I can hear the sound of mixers, the clatter of utensils, and the talking of other contestants. All of it fades into the background. My entire world is narrowed to focus on the sculpture before me.
Just as I'm feeling confident about my design, I finally glance around the kitchen at my fellow contestants. Most of them have already descended into that laser-focused baking zone, their heads down on their own projects.
I look over at Savannah's station and nearly laugh out loud. She's battling with an industrial mixer like it's a wild animal. I can see the sweat glistening on her forehead, and her full lips are pressed into a determined line.
I should be focusing on my own work, but I can't help but look over because of all her frantic movements. I'm sure the cameras are catching all of it, and it will be great television.
The thing is, this isn’t the Savannah I knew in school. She was calm, cool, and collected. She didn’t show fear or worry or angst of any kind. That’s why I refer to her as Sunny. But this woman? This is a whole different level of panic I’m seeing.
She's cranking the mixer speed knob up and down, and the metal bowl is rattling like it's about to leap off the counter. There's chocolate spattering everywhere, and I wince when I see thick ganache spraying out in big globs.
Her face is full of frustration, her fingers jabbing at the controls with increasing desperation. I'm way further along in my project than she is. I don't know how she'll even finish this. I tell myself to mind my own business. She's not my problem. We're not friends, and this is a competition, but seeing her struggle like this pulls at something in me.
With a sigh, I grab a side towel and make my way over to her station, dodging all the curious glances from other contestants. "You have to stop assaulting the mixer controls like that," I whisper loudly as I walk toward her, trying to keep my tone neutral.
She jumps at the sound of my voice like she's had an adrenaline rush, turning to face me with wide eyes. "What? Oh no, it's fine. I've got it under control."
"Clearly you don't," I say, stepping over beside her. "At least let me take a look."
"I don't need your help, Rhett," she says quietly, a hint of panic in her voice. "People already think there's a romance between us. Go back to your station."
Ignoring her protests, I gently nudge her aside with my hip and then swipe my towel across the controls. "The key to this one is steady, even pressure on the speed lever. You were just jackhammering it back and forth, which is probably how you gummed it up." I adjust the speed dial with a smooth, controlled motion, and the bowl finally begins to whirl, the ganache churning into a perfect consistency. "See? Easy as that." She glares at me, her eyes flashing with a mix of gratitude and possibly annoyance. I look at her. "What? Any idiot could have figured out what you were doing wrong after watching you for ten seconds."
She huffs and puts her hands on her hips. "Oh, really? Then why did it take you so long to come over and help me?"
"Maybe I was paying attention to my own project, or maybe I’m not supposed to be helping my competition.”
She rolls her eyes, but I can see a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Well, thanks for the help, I guess. Not that I needed it."
"Sure you didn't," I say, stepping back. "And don't go breaking any more mixers. Those things are expensive."
She squares her shoulders, lifting her chin defiantly. "I'll be fine, Rhett, but please don't let me keep you from your masterpiece."
"You're very welcome," I say with a tight smile, remembering that cameras are watching us. To ward off any thoughts about romance with the audience, I quickly add, “But good luck not screwing anything else up in the meantime."
Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think she will throw something at me, maybe the mixer, but it's too heavy. Instead, she turns back to her work, her shoulders stiff but determined. I walk back to my station, but I can't help but glance over my shoulder. Despite her fiery attitude, something about her makes me want to see her succeed, even if it means putting up with all her stubbornness.
* * *
SAVANNAH
Things are not going well. I slam the heavy stainless-steel bowl down on the counter with a deafening clang, the sound reverberating around the kitchen. Of course, it draws the attention of everyone around me, and I can feel everybody staring. My face burns with embarrassment. I want to crawl under my workstation and disappear.
"Dang it," I whisper loudly, my voice cracking. Of course, the cameraman comes in for a closeup of my meltdown.
I slam my hands down on the counter, my shoulders heaving as I try to catch my breath. Tears threaten the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not on camera.
I also refuse to look over at Rhett. I'm sure he's enjoying this. The last thing he will do is come over here and help me again. The entire kitchen falls silent, and I can feel the weight of everyone's stares like a physical pressure on my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the humiliating reality of the situation. I take a shaky breath, my hands still gripping the edge of the counter.
Everything is falling apart. It's just week one. My project is a mess. I have no composure. I feel like I'm crumbling under the pressure, and it's terrifying. I never thought my anxiety would hit me like this, and yet here I am on national television, basically having a panic attack in front of everybody.
"Savannah, honey, take a deep breath."
I suddenly hear Maggie's soothing voice cut through the haze of my panic. I don't know how she got to my station, but she's standing there looking at me with an expression of concern.
"I can't do this, Maggie. I just can't," I whisper. I don't know why I'm whispering since we have microphones, but I do.
"Yes, you can," she says, gently placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You've come this far; don't let one setback make you quit."
I look at her, tears blurring my vision. "But everything's falling apart. I'm falling apart."
She looks around at the other contestants who are still watching us. “Hey, everyone, let’s get back to work. There’s nothing to see here." Her tone is firm, and everybody returns to what they were doing. Slowly, I hear the noise level in the kitchen start to rise again as everybody gets back to work.
She looks back at me, her eyes locking onto mine. "You're not falling apart, sweetheart. You’re just having a rough moment. We all have them."
I sniffle, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’ve already ruined everything. There's no way that I can fix this."
"Maybe not," she says, looking around at the mess I've made on the counter, "but you can start over. You're good at this, Savannah. Really good. Don't let one mistake take you out of the game."
"Why do you care, Maggie? You're competing with me,” I say, laughing.
She smiles softly. "Because I've been where you are, and I know how hard it is to keep going when everything feels like it's falling apart. You have to remember why you're here."
"You sound like a grandmother."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Maggie says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "Now, why don't you get this mess cleaned up and then start working on how to salvage your project."
I take another deep breath, nodding slowly. "Okay. Thank you."
"Don't mention it," she says, handing me a clean bowl. "Now I've got to get back to work. We both have a competition to win."
As she walks back to her station, I feel a sense of gratitude and determination. She’s right; I can’t let one setback ruin everything that I’ve worked so hard for. I won’t give up, not right now. I take a deep breath and steady myself. I can do this for Sadie and for me. For all the dreams that we've put on hold for so long.
I start cleaning up the mess on my counter. The broken pieces of my project might be unsalvageable, but I'm not. I refuse to be.
I try not to, but I steal a glance at Rhett who's still working at his station, completely absorbed in his project. I have a competition to win, and I'm not letting anyone, including Rhett, stand in my way.
* * *
SAVANNAH
I had a temper tantrum on national TV. This is the thought that I keep reminding myself of repeatedly as I mentally kick myself in the shin while I wait for the judges to walk around the kitchen and make their judgments about each of us.
I might be going home. I can feel it in my bones. I don't see any way around it.
Everyone else at least has something to show for the last three hours of work. I, too, have something to show, but it certainly isn't something I would normally put out for all the world to see. I had these grandiose plans and ideas to make a movement sculpture out of a rose. I don't know what I was thinking. Flowers don't typically move all that much. My heart is thundering in my ears as the judges make their solemn procession around the kitchen.
I've watched a lot of those baking reality shows on TV. They always seem so happy and peppy. The judges are always friendly. Well, these three judges are not friendly at all. They are all business all the time. They barely crack a smile. They don't hand out compliments.
I suddenly flash to the early version of Simon Cowell, who was on American Idol. Everyone who stood before him was harshly judged, and sometimes, his comments made me laugh. These judges are the early Simon Cowells who don’t hold back on what they think. It’s not as entertaining when it’s pointed at me.
This is like being back in school, only with the worst set of professors I could have ever thought of having, but I have to stand here and wait for them to come to my station and tell me how much I suck. Then I can go upstairs, lay down in my bed, and sob for the rest of the night like a normal person.
I'm trying to look like someone with poise while I wait for my judgment, but I swear sweat is dripping down my back as they get closer and closer to my station. This intimidating trio is a team of the most formidable figures in the entire modern dessert world. I could only ever dream of reaching their heights if I worked the rest of my life. The worst one is Chef Alain. He's always got this stern look on his face as if it might break if he actually smiles. Next to him is Tessa, the social media queen. You would think she would be social, interactive, smiling, but no, she's very serious about her job.
She has a multimillion-dollar business empire, and rabid fans line up for hours just to sample what she creates. I don't think I could get a line of three stray cats to stand here and eat what I've got on my station.
And then, of course, there's Marco, the dashing international man of mystery who travels around the world eating at different places. How is that a job? How did someone get so lucky in all their life choices that what they do for a living is travel the world and eat?
Anyway, the intimidating brain trust of the dessert elite continues walking around the kitchen. I can’t hear everything they’re saying, but they seem pretty impressed with what most people have done. That shall change as soon as they arrive at my station. Everything fell apart, so I had to abandon my original design vision for the chocolate rose sculpture and settle on a sleeker, more minimalist approach.
A series of gravity-defying curved panels that were to be balanced on a sloping wave-like structure. It was supposed to look like perpetual motion. Basically, it was what I could do in the time I had left, but now I find the judges standing right in front of me, Chef Alain with his narrow eyes silently looking at my lopsided curves and imperfect chocolate work. Chocolate is not what I'm good at. I'm a talented pastry chef, or at least I think I am. You give me a cake, and I will wipe the floor with you, but you give me a bunch of chocolate, and well, this is what happens.
I can't help but see the flaws in everything I'm looking at. Tessa's gaze roams over my design, giving no hint as to whether she thinks it's innovative or just completely ridiculous. The knot of dread in my stomach is clenching tighter as Marco picks up one of the rippling wave pieces and looks at it closer. Kind of a strange thing to do. They normally don't pick things up, but mine isn’t completely together, so he figured no harm was done.
"This was an intriguing approach," Chef Alain says in a clinical, detached manner. "I suppose you were trying to capture perpetual movement, which was certainly ambitious." I brace myself. I know this isn't going to be good. "To be honest, the execution is very much lacking in precision. These warped curves and uneven layers don't achieve the sort of meticulous mathematical flow that you would need. Very imprecise to convey the intended visual." It’s like listening to a thesaurus come to life and speak to me. Lots of big words, and I have no idea what he means.
I can't help but flinch as he continues to tell me everything wrong with what I've done here. But then Tessa decides to join in. "Yeah, I'm not feeling the kinetic energy that you were going for here, and these overlapping wave patterns just look chaotic and muddy."
Her feedback strikes yet another humiliating blow to my already severely lacking confidence. They suggest how I could have improved this, but what do I care? I don't ever plan to do this again.
Marco steps forward with his eyebrows knitted together. He traces his finger along one of the curved panels, and his expression sours. "There's just textural issues here beyond the shape problems,” he says. "The chocolate seems over-tempered, wouldn't you agree? It has an almost grainy look, and I ate a piece of it, and I just... well, let's say I wouldn't want to eat it again."
My cheeks flush like someone has poured scalding hot water on them. My rookie tempering mistake has just been called out in front of everyone. I hazard a glance over at Connor, who has a smirk on his face as if he's enjoying this more than Christmas morning.
At this point, I just want them to leave my station. I would like to go upstairs and pack my bags since it seems obvious that I’ll be going home tonight. They continue walking around, and they land at Bianca's workstation. As bad as my sculpture looked, Bianca's looks even worse. I cringe with secondary embarrassment for her when I can see that tears are already visible on her face. Her design missed the mark big time, and she looks like she created some sort of a sphere of chocolate that just fell apart all over her station.
I don't know exactly what she was trying to do. Tessa looks at it in disgust. "Was this even supposed to be recognizable as some kind of architectural inspiration? I can't even find a design pattern or theme here at all. It just looks like a big, melted blob. I'm so confused."
Yikes. I feel bad for Bianca. I haven't talked to her often, but she seems nice enough.
"Yes, I'm very confused," Marco says. "This consistency is absolutely unacceptable for professional-level work. Very sloppy and broken down. It's essentially inedible."
Her head hangs, and I want to give her a hug. They say a few more comments, none of them being any better, and then mercifully move on to the next station. I can't help but feel some relief. Maybe I at least have a chance to stay. Of course, when the at-home audience votes after seeing my temper tantrum, they'll probably want to vote me off. I can't blame them.
They finally reach Rhett's station, and sitting there in its immaculate, breathtaking glory is nothing short of what I would call a sculptural chocolate masterpiece—a towering, spiraling vortex that I can't understand how he even made. It looks like something out of an art gallery.
Every component is exquisitely executed, and it makes me mad to even say so, but I can't help it. It's something to really behold. There's a seamless, glossy surface polish to the chocolate that I don't understand how he accomplished, and that was with him coming over to my station a couple of times to try to help me… or maybe taunt me. I still don't know.
"Now, this is what I'm talking about," Chef Alain says loudly. He's still not smiling, but he seems excited. "The impeccable craftsmanship and the visionary scope here. Bravo!”
"That glossy finish is unreal," Tessa says. "And capturing this with such clean architectural style. Very nice."
Even Marco seems at a loss for words for a moment. Everyone is staring at it with rapt fascination, and there's Rhett himself, a gratified pride glowing through his striking blue eyes as they cut over to me briefly. I am, of course, staring at him mortified. I can see the barest hint of a smirk or a smile. It's hard to tell with him.
Chef Alain turns around. "Make no mistake, as far as the judges go, there is a clear winner in today's challenge. Of course, we still have to wait for the audience to vote on who's going home, and their votes will be combined with ours. We already know who we think should leave the challenge today, but the audience might be able to change that decision. We will be back shortly to announce. For now, start cleaning up your stations."
I assume this is when they go on a commercial break, so I quickly start cleaning up, knowing that this could be the last time I'm in this kitchen. Bianca's masterpiece was no such thing, but neither was mine. It could really be either one of us. It could actually be anyone. The audience does have quite a bit of say-so in this situation.
"Congratulations,” I say in Rhett's direction. He turns and smiles slightly.
"Thanks."
Thanks. Is that all he has to say? I expected him to stick his chest out and walk around like an egomaniacal rooster or something, but instead, he just begins to wipe down his station.
He had the undisputed victory here. Why isn't he playing it up more?
A few moments later, Dan arrives again in the kitchen with the three judges behind him. They stand before the cameras and announce that Rhett is the winner, and we all clap. Well, except for Connor, he pretends to clap. You can tell he's not actually touching his hands together. He wanted to win, and he didn't, and for that much, I'm thankful that Rhett got it.
"After reviewing the judge's votes and then adding in the audience participation, we have our first contestant who will be leaving The Baking Games for week one, and that contestant is..."
There's a long pause for dramatic effect.
"Bianca."
Everybody turns and looks in her direction. Tears are already streaming down her face. I think she knew. I think we all did. Several of us walk over and hug Bianca as the show winds down to a close, and we return to our regularly scheduled programming.