CALDER

 

 

There’s something about the holiday season that turns me into a fool.

It wasn’t always like this—at least not that I can remember. But meeting the right woman and having a child does something to a man—something I no longer have any interest in denying. In my life, Christmas has always been a season of traditions, but often those traditions were more about status and obligation than about something more meaningful. This year, however, the idea of tradition carries much more significance. I might even say it has appeal.

Which is how I ended up staring down at this recipe.

I sip at my glass of scotch, my eyes skimming over the list of ingredients. I’ve read through the recipe a dozen times already, and it seems simple enough, but for some reason, I find myself hesitant to begin.

This is why I don’t bake. Cooking is just fine—I’m getting better at it, everyone agrees—but baking is a completely different animal. Normally I’d pass this off to Martin, but he’s spending Christmas with his elderly father this year. Or I’d ask my younger sister Louisa for help, but she, her husband, and their daughter decided to take an impromptu trip to the beach for the holidays. And Lily’s father and his new wife are on a cruise, which leaves just me, Lily, and our infant son here at the estate for Christmas. Which means it falls to me to give my family the holiday they deserve.

It all started shortly after Thanksgiving, when Louisa and Ward announced their travel plans. That night, after we’d tucked Noah into his crib, Lily seemed much quieter than usual. Later, in bed, I found her flipping through a magazine with a frown on her face. I still remember that conversation with perfect clarity…

 

“What is it?” I asked her, gently stroking the back of her hand. I glanced down at the magazine in front of her. It was one of those crafty lifestyle magazines—the kind with glossy pictures of perfectly decorated homes and professional-looking dinner spreads.

“I was just thinking about Christmas,” she said. “About what we should do to celebrate. I’m excited for Lou and Ward, but I wasn’t counting on having to do all the cooking and decorating by myself this year. Lou was so into all of that last year I just assumed she’d be in charge of everything again. And with Noah…” She sighed and rubbed the side of her nose. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to complain. But we’ve hardly gotten a full night’s sleep since Noah was born, and I’m not sure I have the energy to do any of this. But it’s his first Christmas and we have to do something. At the very least we need a tree, and maybe some lights. And I’d really love to do a special meal—nothing crazy, but something different. Something we only do once a year. I know he’s only a few months old, but I want everything to be perfect for him. I’m just so, so tired…”

I squeezed her hand. “Lily, you’re speaking as if you’re the one who can make any of that happen, that you’re in this alone. I can help. Noah is my son, too, and I’d do anything to give him a wonderful first Christmas.”

She looked up at me, and for the first time, I realized how close to tears she was. I knew the holidays were important to her, but I hadn’t realized how much until that moment.

“You know what?” I told her. “I don’t want you to have to worry about any of it. This year, I’m in charge of Christmas. I’ll take care of everything.”

I half expected her to protest, but it was a testament to how exhausted she was that I saw only relief in her eyes—relief and overwhelming love.

“You’d do that?” she said. “I know this isn’t really your thing…”

“It’s my thing now,” I told her. “I’d do anything for you, Lily. And you’ve been doing so much since Noah was born. You deserve to be taken care of for a while.”

She sniffed. “You have been taking care of me.”

“Clearly not well enough, if you’re worried about this. Trust me, I can do this.” I plucked the magazine out of her hand. “I’ll give you a Christmas you’ll never forget.”

 

* * *

 

Which brings me to this recipe.

When I first flipped through Lily’s magazine, I was pleased to discover she’d already dogeared a number of the pages. That took some of the guesswork out of things—I could see what kind of decorations she likes and what recipes she wanted to try. That, combined with the leftover decor from last year, gave me a starting place. Last weekend, I hung up garlands, wreaths, and twinkle lights. This week, I decided to try my hand at the cake.

How hard can a cake be?

The one she marked is a classic bûche de Noël, or Yule log—a rolled-up cake filled with jam and then iced and decorated to look like a fallen log, complete with meringue mushrooms and powdered sugar “snow” on top. At first glance, the instructions looked simple enough—and after all, if it’s in a magazine, they must believe it to be a reasonable project for a home baker.

But now that I’m staring at the row of ingredients, I’m having second thoughts.

Just start, you fool. The damned cake isn’t going to make itself. I grab the flat pan and put a sheet of parchment paper on the bottom, just as the recipe tells me to.

See? That was easy. One step at a time.

Following the instructions, I separate the eggs and put the yolks into the large, metal bowl of the countertop mixer. I’ve seen Martin, Louisa, and Lily use the mixer before, but I’ve never tried it myself. Still—how hard can it be?

Next, I measure and add the sugar into the bowl, just as the recipe says. The following step tells me to mix them thoroughly, so I locate the switch to turn the mixer on and flick it on.

And sugar and eggs fly everywhere.

I jump back, cursing, but it’s too late—gloopy raw egg splatters on my clothes.

That’s what I get for refusing to wear a damned apron, I think, trying to shake egg yolk off my sleeve. I’ll need to get this shirt dry cleaned, but there’s not much I can do about it now. Grumbling, I grab one of the aprons hanging on the hooks by the door and tie it over my clothes. This is why I don’t bake.

This time, when I turn on the mixture, I start with a much lower setting. Once I make sure it’s not going to explode out of the bowl, I look at the recipe again. The next step is to make a meringue to fold into the egg yolk mixture. Easy enough. It looks like all I have to do is whip up the egg whites and some more sugar. The recipe tells me that after a few minutes the mixture should form “stiff peaks.”

Fortunately, the kitchen here at the estate is still well equipped, even though we don’t have a full kitchen staff anymore. I locate a second mixer beneath one of the workstations, and I haul it up onto the counter and plug it in. I throw the egg whites and sugar into the bowl and carefully turn it on.

Now, it’s time to wait. The recipe says it might take a little while for the meringue to stiffen. In the meantime, I study the glossy picture of the finished cake again. I’m still not sure how I’m going to make chocolate frosting look like bark, but I’ll worry about that when I get there.

After some time, I check on the meringue. The mixture is frothy, not stiff. I guess it needs more time.

Leaning against the counter, I pull my phone out of my pocket and pull up my email. I might as well get some work done while I wait.

After five minutes and a couple of answered emails, I check the meringue again.

Still foamy.

It’s taking it’s sweet time, isn’t it? Shaking my head, I return to my inbox. Three emails later, I check on the meringue again.

Still foamy.

Frowning, I reread the recipe. According to the magazine, the meringue should be stiff by now. But what exactly does “stiff” mean anyway when it comes to a meringue? It definitely looks thicker than usual batter. Maybe that’s what the recipe means. It even warns me not to over-mix the meringue.

It must be done by now, I tell myself. I turn off the mixer and move to the next step.

The next step tells me to “carefully fold” the meringue and the egg yolk mixture together. I spoon the egg yolks into the meringue and combine them as carefully as I can. Then, as directed, I measure the flour and mix that in, too. The result is rather soupy and lumpy, but isn’t that how batter generally looks before going into the oven? I pour the batter into the pan, and though a little sloshes over the sides, I manage to avoid making too much of a mess.

Then I carry the pan over to the oven. I forgot to turn it on when I first started putting the recipe together, but I do that now, turning it to the designated four hundred degrees after sliding my cake inside.

Now it’s time to wait again.

The cake doesn’t cook for long—only about thirteen minutes, according to the recipe—and that’s plenty of time to get started on the frosting.

And the frosting is definitely easier. At least it looks like frosting. I’m watching the mixer go round and round when the timer goes off, indicating that my cake is done.

This is it. The moment of truth. I head over to the over and pull it open, praying for a miracle.

Apparently, God and the universe aren’t on my side today.

I’m not a baker, but I still believe I know what a cake is suppose to look like. And what I see in front of me looks nothing like anything I’d want to eat. The edges of the rectangular cake are so dark I’m fairly certain they’re burnt. But the middle is still basically liquid. How the hell did that happen?

I grab the oven mitts and pull the pan out of the over. Something went wrong here, but what? When I carry the pan over to the counter, I can see that most of the cake is still liquid, not just the center. It’s only the very edges that burned—and even then, it appears that there might still be some liquid batter under the burned bits.

Sighing, I deposit the cake on the counter, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do now. What the hell happened? I followed the damn instructions, didn’t I? It’s the damned recipe’s fault. I did everything I was supposed to.

After stewing for a moment, I force myself to take a couple of deep breaths. I need to remember why I’m doing this—to give Lily the Christmas she deserves. If that means making the cake more than once to make sure I get it right, then that’s what I’m going to do.

I dump the batter into the trash and try again. I reread all the instructions carefully, then make sure to follow them to the letter.

This time, the cake comes out of the oven a little better, but something is definitely still wrong. Something about the texture still doesn’t look right, but at least this one isn’t completely liquid. Or burnt.

I stare at Cake #2 on the counter for several long moments. I’m obviously going to have to make it again, but before I do, I want to figure out exactly what went wrong this time.

Maybe I should taste it, I think. Even if it looks awful, the taste is the important part, right? After all, by the time I’m done, the cake will be covered in chocolate frosting and meringue mushrooms anyway.

I grab a fork and stab one of the parts of the cake that looks almost normal. Then I take a bite.

And nearly throw it right back up.

Lunging for the trash can, I spit my half-chewed bite of cake into the bin. Whatever I just put into my mouth, it wasn’t cake. It didn’t even taste remotely like cake. It was salty.

Wiping my the back of my hand across my mouth, I return to my recipe. How the hell did the cake get so damn salty? The recipe only calls for a little salt.

And then my eyes move to the ingredients lined up carefully in a row on the counter. Someone transfered them from the original bags they came in to nice, coordinating jars marked with decorative labels. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realize what happened—every time the recipe called for sugar, I simply reached for the nearest jar full of small white granules. Which, I see now, is actually the salt.

Cursing at myself, I throw Cake #2 in the trash and get to work on the next one.

Maybe the third time’s a charm?

No, apparently not. The third one ends up having texture issues—somehow, it turns out even lumpier than the second cake.

Then I accidentally drop the fourth attempt as I try to pull it out of the oven.

Finally, when I go back to make the cake a fifth time, I realize I’m out of eggs.

Damn it. What else could go wrong?

But there’s no giving up now. I’ve committed to making Lily the cake she wants, and nothing is going to stop me. I guess I’m making a run to the grocery store.

I’m pulling on my coat by the front door when I hear Lily call my name behind me. When I turn, I find her coming down the stairs with Noah carefully cradled in her arms.

“Where are you going?” she asks me with a smile.

“Just up to the store for a minute,” I reply. “Can I grab you anything?”

“I’m fine,” she says. Noah coos in her arms, and her face brightens as she looks down at him. He’s growing so quickly—it’s hard to believe that only a few months ago he was tiny enough to be cradled in one elbow. He wiggles in Lily’s arms, and she snuggles him closer before looking back up at me.

“What’s this?” she says, reaching out toward my face. Her fingers brush against my cheek. “Do you have flour on your face?”

“It’s nothing,” I tell her quickly. “Just a little project I’m working on.” The cake is going to be a surprise.

Her eyes sparkle. “What kind of project? Something delicious?”

“You’ll see,” I tell her, though right now even that noncommittal response sounds overconfident. “Just, uh…stay out of the kitchen for a little while. Please?”

“If you want,” she agrees. “I can’t wait to see what you’re up to, though.”

“You will,” I promise her. How could I not, when she’s standing there looking at me with such love in her eyes? And when Noah is looking up at the both of us like we’re his entire world?

“I’ll be back soon,” I say, leaning forward and kissing her softly. Then I bow my head and kiss Noah on the cheek. I love my wife more than life itself, but the love I have for our son is something else, something that’s impossible to put into words. It makes me even more determined to give them the Christmas they deserve.

An hour later I return with all the necessary ingredients, reinvigorated.

This time, the cake comes out perfectly. Or at least as perfectly as someone with my set of skills will probably ever achieve. Then, following the recipe’s instructions to carefully roll up the cake, I do so.

And then, of course, despite my efforts to follow the instructions exactly, the damned cake cracks, splitting on one side as I roll it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding back a stream of curses. It takes every ounce of will in my body to keep from throwing this cake in the trash, too.

It will be covered in frosting anyway, I tell myself. Just make sure the frosting is extra thick on that side.

Before I frost anything, though, I have to fill the cake.

I retrieve the raspberry jam and a spoon and carefully unroll the cake again, praying it doesn’t crack any further. Then I dump the jar of jam on the cake and use the knife to spread it out. A nice, thick layer of jam won’t fix the cracked cake, but it will definitely make it taste better.

It seems like a good idea until I try to roll up the cake again. The thick layer of jam oozes out of the ends of the cake, as well as through the giant crack in the side.

“Damn it.” Now it looks like my cake is bleeding. It might taste like raspberries, but it looks disgusting.

I grab the pan again, once more ready to throw the entire thing away. But something stops me.

Do you really think it’s going to be better the next time around? Besides, you used the entire jar of jam—if you start over, you have to run back to the store again.

Time to see if I can fix this with a thick layer of frosting.

I’m hunting for the bowl of frosting I made when a knock sounds on the door to the kitchen. I jump, and my jerky movement knocks an empty pan off the counter. It clatters onto the floor.

The door swings open.

“Calder? Are you okay?”

“Don’t come in here!” I shout, throwing up my hands as if I could block her vision from here. “Don’t look!”

She pulls the door partially closed again, but she leaves it cracked. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine.” I grab the pan and put it back on the counter. “I just knocked something over. You promised me you wouldn’t come in here.”

“I won’t,” she says. “But I was wondering if I could get something to eat. You know how starving nursing makes me. Any chance you want to take a break for dinner?”

I glance down at my watch. It’s nearly seven o’clock. How the hell did that happen? How long have I been in this kitchen?

“I…uh, I hope you don’t mind something simple for dinner,” I say. “Would a sandwich be okay?”

“Sure,” she says through the crack in the door.

“Good. I’ll bring you one in just a few minutes.”

She retreats, and I hastily run into the pantry, gathering the things I need to make a sandwich. A few minutes later, I’m walking into the dining room with a peanut butter and banana sandwich for Lily, as well as some leftover salad from last night. I find her sitting at the table.

“Is Noah sleeping?” I ask, setting the plate down in front of her.

“For the moment. Thank you for the sandwich.” Her smile falls when she sees I’ve only brought one plate. “You aren’t joining me?”

“I’m almost done,” I tell her. “I’ll just eat as I work.”

“What exactly are you doing in there?” she asks again.

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” I lean down and kiss her on the top of the head. “I’ll try to be quick.”

She doesn’t argue with me, but she shakes her head with an amused smile. “I’m starting to worry about you.”

“Don’t worry about me. It will be worth the wait.”

When I return to the kitchen and see the disaster area waiting for me, though, I second-guess myself. I knew I was making a bit of a mess as I worked, but until I walked away for a minute, I never got the full picture. The kitchen looks like it was hit by a tornado. Dirty bowls and pans cover every surface. Flour and sugar are scattered across the floor and countertops. And bright red raspberry jam seems to be everywhere I look—splattered on the wall, smeared along the edge of the counter. When I look down at myself, I realize I have several large smears of jam on my apron, too.

Well, there’s not much you can do now, I tell myself. Just finish the damn cake already and you can clean up after.

I grab the bowl of frosting and a spatula and face my cake. The jam is still oozing out of the side, making it look like a wounded animal.

We’ll start by covering that up…

Some time later, I step back and examine my work. I’ve finally managed to cover the whole cake, which was a harder task than I expected. The jam continued to gush through the crack along the side the entire time, seeping through the frosting like some sort of alien ooze. Not exactly the look I’m going for. When I finally have something passable, I glance down at my watch. Then nearly choke.

It took me two hours to put frosting on this damn thing. Two hours, and it still doesn’t even really look like a log. And I haven’t even started the meringue mushrooms, or figured out how to get the top layer of the frosting to look like bark…

But I’ll die before I let this cake get the better of me. This is for Lily.

I pour myself more scotch. Then I go find Lily and tell her I’m probably going to be late to bed tonight. I’m going to beat this damn cake if it takes all night.

And God help me, it nearly does.

I slave over my project, nearly destroying the kitchen in the process. The minutes turn into hours, and the hours feel like an eternity. But I won’t be defeated, not by a cake.

The meringue mushrooms take three tries—the first batch never ends up the right texture, and I accidentally burn the second batch in the oven. The third batch ends up looking like a bunch of tiny phallus-shaped blobs, but it’s the best I can hope for at this point. While they dry out in the oven, I use a fork and a tutorial I pull up on my phone to create a bark-like pattern on the frosting of the cake. The raspberry jam has started to ooze out of the crack in the side again, but I tell myself I’ll just stick a couple of extra mushrooms in front of it and no one will notice.

Finally, when the mushrooms are out of the oven, cool, and assembled, it’s time to put the whole thing together. Sweat drips down my forehead as I delicately place the mushrooms all over my cake, taking care to hide any of the uglier bits. Finally, I take some powdered sugar and sprinkle it over the top, creating the effect of a light snow.

Then I step back, take a deep breath, and survey the results.

It looks…

Glorious. Well, at least to me. I’m sure any halfway decent baker would take one look at it and laugh me right out of the kitchen. I’m so exhausted that I might be hallucinating, and somehow in the last couple of hours half of my bottle of scotch has disappeared, but the cake is done, and it more or less looks like a log. I did it.

I sit down on the stool next to the counter and pour myself one more glass of scotch, just to celebrate. I toast myself and then drink the entire thing down in one long gulp.

Afterward, I sit there staring at my finished cake with satisfaction. Yawning, I lean my elbow on the counter and my head on my hand, admiring how it all came together. I have a lot of cleaning to do before I go to bed—and it’s already past four in the morning—but can I take a few minutes to admire my work, can’t I?

And what fine, fine work it is…

 

* * *

 

The next thing I’m aware of is Lily’s voice calling me.

I jerk back into consciousness, and in doing so, I tumble right off the stool, landing on the floor of the kitchen with a groan.

“Calder?” Lily rushes into the kitchen and is by my side in an instant. “Are you hurt?”

“Don’t look!” I say, covering her eyes.

She laughs. “Calder, I was willing to let you have your secrets before, but you’re clearly overworking yourself. I didn’t expect you to be in here all night.”

“All night? What time is it?”

“Seven in the morning.”

Cursing, I drop my hand from her eyes. She’s still laughing, though, as we both climb to our feet.

“Are you going to let me see what you’ve been working on?” she asks. She keeps her eyes on me, but I can tell it’s taking all of her effort not to look around the kitchen.

At this point, why not? It’s done.

“I wanted to make this Christmas special for you and Noah,” I said. “So I made you the cake I saw in your magazine.” I step aside, showing her my masterpiece.

It’s the first time I’ve seen the cake since waking. Last night, when I finished, I was convinced that by some miracle I’d pulled it off, that I’d created something beautiful. Now, though, I find myself wondering exactly how drunk and exhausted I was. The cake is a disaster—the frosting is uneven, and jam is still oozing out through the side. Several of my meringue mushrooms have fallen over, and the one I placed on the very center of the cake looks even more like a male reproductive organ than I remember. The cake doesn’t even look like a log, but rather a rotting pile of compost. Why does it look like it’s melting?

Lily is speechless for a long moment. Clearing my throat, I step between her and the cake again, cutting off her view.

“It’s not much,” I tell her. “But I have very little experience baking. I was thinking I’d call the little bakery in town and see if they could—”

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“What?”

She smiles up at me. “I think it’s beautiful.” She steps around me and goes over to the cake. “I can’t believe you made this yourself. No wonder it took you all night.”

“You don’t have to do this, Lily.”

“Do what?” she spins back around to face me. “You spent the last twenty hours or so making this for me, simply because you love me and you knew I wanted one. That makes it the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen.” She steps close and throws her arms around my neck. “You’re an amazing husband, Calder Cunningham. And an amazing father. Noah and I are so lucky to have you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” I say, sliding my arms around her waist. “You haven’t tasted it. Come to think of it, maybe you should let me taste it before you. I had a few small disasters…”

She laughs, then stands up on her toes to kiss me.

“Merry Christmas, Calder,” she says. “I love you.”

“Merry Christmas, Lily.”

And I know, right then, that this is going to be our best Christmas yet.