Midsummer's Mayhem

by Rajani LaRocca

  Puffy Fay fixed me with his bright blue gaze. “Did Mrs. T tell you to come out here and check on me? I said I’d be right back in. I had to take a call.” His eyes weren’t full of fun, like they were on TV.

  Puffy Fay’s eyes were distinctly annoyed.

  “Oh, no, Chef Fay,” I said. “I . . . I just came out here to get some air.”

  “Then have a seat,” he said, indicating the stool next to him.

  I sat.

  I was sitting next to Puffy Fay!

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but his attention was focused on his phone, so I watched the river and woods and tried to stop trembling.

  “I grew up here in Comity, you know,” he said.

  “I do know,” I said fervently.

  “I’ve always loved Comity Woods. Sometimes I wish I’d never left.”

  “But . . .” I caught my breath. “You live in New York, and you have your restaurants and your TV show and your cookbook. And I’ve learned so much from you.”

  “You have, huh?” He turned to me with an unreadable expression.

  “I’ve read Mischief and Magic in the Kitchen so many times, I’ve pretty much got it memorized. I love all the stories you tell about making food for your family and friends. I try to experiment with herbs and spices in my baking—and it’s all thanks to you.”

  Puffy Fay considered me. “Well then, I guess it’s good I moved away after all.” He pocketed his phone.

  “It’s wonderful that you agreed to judge a kids’ contest. Is it because you’re such good friends with Mrs. T?”

  He looked off into the distance. “I only met her last week,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, I have no idea why I’m here. She gave me the nastiest bitter chocolate to eat. Once she asked me to come, though, I felt like . . . I had to . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Chef Fay? Are you okay?”

  He blinked and shook his head. “You don’t just say no to an enchanting woman like that. I’ve got a new cookbook coming out, and I’ve got to get back for a book signing event in New York tonight. My publicist wants to kill me. But I told her I needed to stay here this morning. Anyway, it’s good to meet a kindred spirit. What’s your name?”

  “Mimi. I can’t wait to read your new book!”

  “Well, Mimi—” Puffy Fay shook my hand. “—you might be in luck.”

  We slid off the stools. Puffy Fay held his arm out, and I took it.

  The look on Kiera’s face as we went back into the café made me feel like I’d already won.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE CHEATER

  Peaseblossom stood at the table with all the entries. She raised her voice and addressed the whole room. “We humbly thank you all for coming here. A hearty welcome on this lovely day. Midsummer’s Eve—it comes but once a year. So please join me to cheer Chef Puffy Fay!”

  The café thundered with cheers and applause as Puffy Fay and I made our way to the display table. “Thank you, everyone,” said Puffy. “So happy to be back in my hometown meeting the chefs of tomorrow!” He waved and inclined his head as people continued to clap.

  Once we got to the table, Puffy Fay was all business.

  “Which ones are yours, Mimi?”

  “Right here.”

  “Cream puffs, huh?” He raised an eyebrow.

  I swallowed hard. “I loved watching you win the Golden Pastry Tourney with your perfect pumpkin pie cream puffs. And I’ve made your spiced pâte à choux and pumpkin pastry cream loads of times.”

  Puffy Fay gave a brisk nod. “You really have memorized my book,” he said. “But these don’t look like they’re pumpkin.”

  “No. I wanted to give you something original. I was inspired by a favorite dessert of mine. And of course, I had to use a root, so—”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me taste and guess,” said Puffy Fay. He picked up a cream puff, felt its weight, and sniffed it. He placed it on a small white plate and examined it from all angles. He took a fork and cut into the puff, taking a small piece of the pastry only. He chewed, furrowed his brow, and wrote on a small notepad.

  I couldn’t breathe. Does he like it? Can he taste the spice I put in the pastry? Is it the right texture? Is it puffy enough?

  Next, he tasted the filling. Smacking his lips, he took another, larger taste. He made another note.

  Can he taste the ginger in the cream, or does the pistachio overpower it? And is he familiar with the dessert that inspired me? Will he think there are too many flavors?

  Finally, he cut a larger piece containing both pastry and filling. He chewed for quite some time and appeared to swish it around in his mouth. He made more notes.

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking him what he thought. Do they go well together? Do the puffs have enough hollow space to hold the filling? Does everything harmonize in the right way? I thought they were good at home, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  “Thank you, Mimi,” he said. He took a sip of water and blotted his lips with a napkin.

  And that was it.

  I stepped back from the table and watched Puffy Fay work his way methodically around the two dozen entries. It was hard to tell what he did and didn’t like, although he took only a single bite of the potato-persimmon pastry before moving on.

  Dad joined me. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Good, I think. I met Puffy Fay!”

  “I saw that—you walked into the room with him! What did he think of your food?”

  “He made all kinds of notes, but he didn’t say anything.”

  “I’m sure he loved it. Can I try one?”

  I nodded. Once the entries had been judged, they were free for anyone to sample.

  Dad bit into a puff. “Mimi, this is genius. I don’t know how you packed all these flavors into a single bite—ginger, pistachio, and cardamom. And they’re so light and airy!” He finished the puff slowly, relishing every bite. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to help you prepare.”

  Dad’s palate was back! I’d missed being able to talk about food in an in-depth way with the only other person in my family who loved it like I did. “I’m sorry, too—I really could have used your help! But Mom did a great job taste testing. And this morning, I got the bright idea to make this filling, inspired by Mom’s kulfi,” I said.

  “I think you hit it out of the park,” said Dad. “And I’m not just saying that because I love you.”

  We strolled around the table, tasting treats and talking to the kids gathered near their entries. Eventually, we found ourselves goggling at Kiera’s professional-looking carrot cake.

  Dad took a bite. “Mmm. Pineapple cream cheese frosting—delicious! This is quite light, very difficult to achieve in a carrot cake. Reminds me of the one they serve at Sucre et Sel, the French bakery in Boston. I reviewed them a couple of years ago.” He looked across the café. “Mom’s waving at me—looks like she wants to introduce me to someone else. I’d better go, honey. Want to come?”

  “No, I’ll just hang around here, in case Puffy Fay comes back.”

  Dad walked away.

  I looked at Kiera’s beautiful cake again and noticed something irregular in the frosting at the bottom.

  Subtle but unmistakable, there was a double S.

  Double S. I gasped. Sucre et Sel! Had Kiera bought this cake from that bakery? No wonder it looked so professional! Disgusted as I was, I was slightly relieved that Kiera hadn’t actually made that marvelous cake herself.

  I pushed my hair out of my face. I couldn’t accuse her without proof, and I couldn’t prove she bought it, not unless she’d brought the box from the bakery, or a receipt or something. I looked around quickly. No one seemed to be looking my way, so I ducked and disappeared under the display table. Hidden under the green tablecloth, I crawled the length of the table on my hands and knees. There were a few boxes and paper bags, but none from Sucre et Sel, and definitely nothing with a receipt. I crept out from under the table and straightened up, brushing dust
off my knees.

  “So thrilled to see you here, my dear, dear Mimi.” Mrs. T appeared out of nowhere, looking more ethereal than ever in a delicate layered pink dress. She had tucked a loose-petaled rose behind her ear, and her perfume was so delicious—flowery and pungent in a mysterious way—that I actually caught myself sniffing the air.

  “Mrs. T,” I said. I angled myself so she couldn’t see my red, dusty legs. “Thank you so much for bringing Puffy Fay here. Even if I don’t make it into the Bake-Off, this has already been a dream come true.”

  “Tut-tut, Mimi, dear. Don’t be so pessimistic. I know you’ll go far.” Her emerald eyes glittered.

  “I hope so. But even if I don’t, it was such a thrill to have Puffy Fay taste my baking.”

  “Chef Fay has already judged your entry?” Mrs. T seemed flustered. “I’ve been busy, making . . . the ale, and . . . my chocolates. Where are your treats?”

  “Right here—the ginger-pistachio cream puffs,” I said. “And I added—”

  “What did Chef Fay say?” Mrs. T grasped my arm.

  “Not much. He spent a long time tasting them—”

  “My dear, you should have brought them to me first!” Mrs. T held up one of my puffs. “It’s lovely, Mimi.” She took a bite and smiled. “Very tasty, too.” She finished it off and elegantly licked her fingers. “Ah, ginger. The most sublime of roots! Promoter of confidence and energy! And cardamom, for joy.” She inclined her head gracefully. “And now I must find Chef Fay and tell him . . .” She scanned the room. “Ah! There he is. Chef Fay! Puffy!” She sped away.

  I sighed. I wasn’t sure my puffs could compete with that carrot cake. But I had no proof that Kiera hadn’t made it. And Puffy Fay was an expert, and he spoke to all the contestants. Maybe he’d already recognized what I suspected.

  I joined my siblings, eating more treats off rustic wooden platters and drinking more cups of cool golden ginger ale. I tried to avoid looking at the judges’ table, where Puffy Fay made more notes and discussed the entries with Mrs. T.

  I’d told Mrs. T the truth. Meeting Puffy Fay was a dream come true.

  But I had to admit that I wanted something else. I wanted to finally be the best at something—not just anything, but the thing I loved most in the world. I wanted my culinary idol to recognize that I had talent and to help me develop it. I wanted my family to see me excel.

  I wanted to win.

  Dad came to me at ten minutes to eleven. “They’re about to announce the three finalists,” he said, squeezing my hand.

  “They are?” I could barely get the words out.

  Dad nodded. “I had the pleasure of meeting Chef Fay, who, to my surprise, knows and likes my writing. He’s a great guy, and as nerdy about baking as we are. He spent a year in India, you know, and loves Indian flavors.”

  “Attention, please!” called Mrs. T, standing in front of the display table with Puffy Fay. “Dear customers and friends, Chef Fay has made his decision. It was quite difficult to do—there’s a lot of talent in this town! A round of applause for all the contestants. Wonderful job, everyone!”

  The room erupted in applause and cheers. Mom, Dad, Henry, Riya, Jules, and even Lily, Fletcher, and Cole beamed at me. Dad whistled through his fingers.

  I couldn’t help grinning. The cheering felt good, and I felt like I deserved it. I had baked something truly special.

  But what if I didn’t make it to the Bake-Off? I’ve met loads of kids who are much better bakers than you, Vik’s voice whispered in my head.

  That wiped the grin off my face.

  “Now we are ready to announce the names of the three bakers advancing,” said Mrs. T.

  Puffy Fay glanced at his watch, then addressed the room. “This talented young baker made an exquisite carrot cake that looked and tasted like it could have come from a bakery in Paris.”

  My stomach did a flip.

  “The first contestant advancing to the Bake-Off is: Kiera Jones! Kiera, please join us,” said Puffy.

  Kiera strutted up to Puffy Fay and shook his hand triumphantly to general applause.

  I took a deep breath. A store-bought cake might have gotten Kiera to this point, but how could she fake her way through the Bake-Off?

  “The second contestant baked an enchanting turmeric-coconut coffee cake, enhanced with nutmeg and cardamom. It reminds me of a tasty little treat I once had in Goa,” said Puffy.

  Someone else had used cardamom in their entry? And it reminded Puffy Fay of an Indian dessert? I broke out in a sweat.

  “Guy Smith! Please come up.”

  A boy wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a hoodie pulled over his head slouched up to Puffy Fay. Instead of shaking his hand, the kid waved vaguely, went to stand on the other side of Kiera, and slumped like he was attempting to blend into the surroundings.

  And I thought I had a trouble performing in front of an audience.

  Puffy Fay and Mrs. T lowered their voices and talked to each other for a moment.

  You won’t win. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

  I looked around at all the people squeezed into the café. It felt like the whole town was here. Maybe it would be a relief if I didn’t need to bake in front of everyone.

  “I’ve got it, Mrs. T—I know what I’ve decided,” came Puffy’s voice. Then he said more loudly, “Last but certainly not least, our third Bake-Off contestant. This young person had the audacity to make my own signature dessert, but with her own personal spin on it. She baked the most exquisite ginger-pistachio cream puffs, enhanced by the subtle use of cardamom, which I believe was inspired by the Indian ice cream called kulfi. Mimi Mackson, please come up!”

  I couldn’t believe it! My family sent up a huge cheer. Mom gave me a swift kiss on the cheek, and Dad ruffled my hair, saying, “I knew it!” Henry give me a high five, Jules jumped up and down, and Riya hugged me tightly and wouldn’t let go until Jules made her.

  I floated to Puffy Fay and shook his hand. Puffy Fay thought I had one of the best three desserts! Among dozens of entries! The embarrassment of the vanilla cookies and Kiera calling me Mimi Mouse faded away. You were wrong, Vik.

  Mrs. T inclined her head and gave me a triumphant smile.

  I was competing in the Bake-Off!

  CHAPTER 23

  FLOUR AND FLOWERS

  “This way, my fine young talents,” said Mrs. T, sweeping the three of us to the back of the café.

  The dark-haired waitress drew aside the evergreen curtains to reveal three baking stations, each with all the equipment any baker could want. A mixer, food processor, piping bags and pastry tips, a variety of pans, parchment paper, and an oven. There was even a blast chiller, just like on Puffy Fay’s TV show.

  Kiera sauntered to the station on the left. I took the middle, pulling my hair into a ponytail and hefting my backpack full of baking supplies over my shoulder. Hoodie Boy slunk to the right.

  “There is a theme for this, the final Bake-Off,” said Mrs. T. She cleared her throat and recited:

  “Midsummer’s Eve has come again, and so

  Our final three must bake and show their powers.

  What blooms at last, once sprouts have time to grow?

  The last Midsummer’s Bake-Off theme is ________!”

  Flowers, I thought to myself. I was getting pretty good at these riddles. I snuck a peek at Kiera, who looked terrified.

  But Kiera didn’t have to sweat for long. Mrs. T nodded to Peaseblossom, who uncovered a table overflowing with bunches of edible flowers—marigolds, dandelions, lavender, hibiscus, roses, chrysanthemums, jasmine, violets, daisies, and some others I didn’t recognize. Luckily, I didn’t see any honeysuckle.

  “Each of you must use at least one type of flower in your baking,” said Puffy Fay, seating himself at a small table behind the flower display.

  But petals are delicate and could turn to dust in an oven, I thought.

  “You have one hour,” said Mrs. T, settling in next to Puffy Fay.

  �
�Oh, and one last thing,” said Puffy Fay. “After you’re done, we’d like to hear your story.”

  “What story? This is a baking contest.” Kiera’s voice shook as she tied on an apron. I guessed it was sinking in that she couldn’t cheat her way into winning this round.

  “Food always tells a story, and the best food tells a memorable one,” Puffy Fay said. “I’d like to hear about your inspiration for your dish. You’ll find basic ingredients—flour, butter, sugar, spices, and so on—at your stations. The fridge has anything else you might need. On your mark.”

  “Get set,” said Mrs. T.

  “GO!” they both said at once.

  You won’t win, I thought, and shook my head. Focus, Mimi. Focus on the baking. What are you going to make?

  I considered the flowers on the table, but my mind went blank. My ears started to buzz, and the sides of my vision turned gray.

  Desperate, I searched the audience. Mom smiled and nodded, and my siblings looked at me expectantly. If only Emma were here—she would have made a face at Kiera and made me giggle.

  I couldn’t remember what it felt like to giggle.

  Puffy Fay looked at his watch again, then fixed me with a bright blue stare.

  Dad stood in the front row behind the judges’ table. He caught my eye and mouthed the word scrumptious while rubbing his stomach.

  I grinned and raced to the flower table.

  I was going to make cupcakes, of course! My favorite ones.

  I spied a bunch of lavender. I gathered it and a bunch of purple violets—my favorite shade of my favorite color—and brought them to my station.

  I grabbed lemons, buttermilk, butter, eggs, and blackberries. I had to find a way to do everything in an hour. I glanced at the big digital timer. Well, fifty-one minutes.

  First, the sugared violets—it would be a challenge to get them ready in time. Vik had hurt me, but I had to admit that his advice was good. These would be the perfect garnish for my cupcakes. I lined a baking sheet with wax paper, added water to meringue powder (less messy than using an egg white) to make a thin solution, and applied it to the violets with a small paintbrush I’d pulled from my backpack. I opened a pack of superfine sugar and sprinkled it on liberally; I gently shook the flowers off and sprinkled again. I put the baking sheet near the already preheated oven, hoping that the warm temperature would help them dry quickly.