Midsummer's Mayhem

by Rajani LaRocca

  Next, the cupcakes. I zested the lemons, scooped sugar from a big bowl, and rubbed the zest in until the mixture was pale yellow and aromatic. I creamed the lemon-flavored sugar with softened butter in the mixer, adding eggs, vanilla, and lemon extract. I measured and sifted together cake flour, baking powder, and salt, then alternated mixing the flour mixture and buttermilk into the butter and sugar mixture. I made sure not to mix too much, since I knew it would make my cakes tough. At the end, I folded in a handful of chopped lavender petals by hand. Lavender, for luck, I thought. I scraped the batter into a paper-lined cupcake pan and put it in the oven, hoping the cupcakes would have enough time to cool before I had to frost them.

  Finally, the frosting. I mashed the blackberries, strained them into a bowl, then chopped up a handful of lavender and added it to the berries. I whipped the butter until it was fluffy, poured in some of the blackberry-lavender mixture, and then added powdered sugar, beating the whole time, until I had a blackberry-lavender frosting that smelled like summer.

  I checked on my cupcakes. They weren’t rising the way they should and just lay like little lumps in the wells of the pan. What had gone wrong? I knew my recipe by heart, and in all the times I’d made these cupcakes, this had never happened. Dense balls of batter stared at me accusingly. Horrified, I pulled them out and sniffed them. They didn’t even smell sweet! I pinched a piece off the edge of one cupcake, blew on it, and tasted gingerly.

  Disgusted, I spit it out.

  I dumped the nasty cakes into the trash, returned to my station, and tasted a pinch of sugar from the large bowl.

  It wasn’t a bowl of sugar. It was salt! What a rookie mistake!

  I tasted from the small bowl on my table. That was salt, too!

  How did that happen? Was someone trying to sabotage me? I glowered at Kiera, but she was focused on breaking a bar of white chocolate. Her station was a disaster, with half-used ingredients all over the place.

  Thirty minutes to go! I needed to get more cupcakes in the oven, or I wouldn’t have anything to show Puffy Fay but a bowl of blackberry frosting.

  I raced to Hoodie Boy’s station. “Can I take your sugar?” I asked.

  He grunted and jerked his head. After tasting to make sure it was sugar, I ran back with the bowl.

  In a frenzy, I remade the batter, and this time I tasted it before I poured it into the pan. It was good, although I could have used more time to cream the butter and lemon-sugar. I popped the pan into the oven with only twenty-seven minutes to go. I knew these cupcakes needed to bake for fifteen, so I increased the oven temperature a tiny bit and hoped for the best. If I could take them out in thirteen minutes, I might be able to get them cool enough so the frosting wouldn’t melt when I piped it onto the cupcakes.

  “No, no, no!” Kiera cried. I looked over at her station, and she was poking at a stiff blob of white chocolate she’d pulled from the microwave. “It’s the third batch that’s ruined!” She had flour on her chin and chocolate in her hair.

  I’d let her deal with her disasters by herself, I thought. But then I saw her wipe a tear from her cheek.

  I sighed. “Have you tried melting it over a double boiler?” I asked.

  “What’s a double boiler?”

  I grabbed a pot and filled it with an inch of water. “It’s gentler than a microwave, and you can stir the whole time,” I said.

  I stuck the pot on the burner at Kiera’s station and put a bowl on top of it so it didn’t touch the water. I turned up the flame so the water started to simmer. “Now melt the chocolate in the bowl warmed by the water. That way it won’t seize up,” I said.

  “Okay,” mumbled Kiera. She furrowed her brow and stared at me. “Mimi—”

  My timer went off. I raced to my station and pulled my cupcakes out—they were barely starting to brown on top. I tested them with a toothpick, and only the slightest bit of crumb stuck to it. But I had to take them out now or I was going to run out of time. I fished them out of the pan, burning several fingers in the process. I set them on the counter to cool and ran to the sink to run cold water over my scorched fingers. I checked on the candied violets, but they were still a little damp, and the sugar wasn’t sticking to them completely. Fourteen minutes to go. I turned off the oven and placed the violets inside.

  I scooped the frosting into a pastry bag and checked on the cupcakes again—they were cooler, but not cool enough to frost. I had to finish. Suddenly, I got a brainwave: I dropped the cupcakes on a sheet pan and ran them to the blast chiller to cool them quicker. I smiled to myself. It was like being on Puffy Fay’s show!

  I raced back to the oven to take out the violets. I threw open the oven . . . and cried out in horror.

  My beautiful sugared violets had turned into charred husks. Even though I had turned the oven off, it must have still been too hot.

  Calm down, Mimi, I thought. I already had lavender flowers in my cupcakes and in the frosting; I didn’t need the violets to stick to the theme. I could just use fresh blackberries, like I was planning to before Vik . . .

  But Vik had been right. Sugared violets would add a special sparkle to my cupcakes.

  Leaving the oven door open, I grabbed more violets. I painted these with the meringue powder solution and dusted them with sugar. Then I put the tray on the open oven door, which was now cool enough to touch. I sent up a prayer to the baking gods that I wouldn’t end up with either a soggy mess or another pile of violet-petal jerky.

  “Two minutes!” Puffy shouted.

  I snatched the cupcakes from the blast chiller, arranged them on a platter, and piped the frosting on. The cupcakes weren’t completely cool, but while the ridges on the frosting softened, they didn’t turn into a runny mess.

  I went back to the violets. I stayed right next to them until there were thirty seconds left, then brought the tray to my waiting platter. Holding my breath, I gingerly laid one shimmering sugared violet on a cupcake.

  It looked like a frost-covered flower nestled in a field of purple snow.

  “Ten seconds!” said Mrs. T.

  “Mimi, hurry!” Jules called.

  I quickly placed violets on the rest of the cupcakes.

  “Time!” called Puffy Fay. “Hands up, please. That means you, Kiera.” Kiera stopped fiddling with her pan and looked up guiltily.

  The audience cheered.

  “Now please present your creations, one by one,” said Mrs. T.

  “You first, Kiera,” said Puffy Fay.

  I wondered what Kiera had managed to make. Her hands shook as she put the platter down; it was piled with swirled brownies decorated with tiny yellow petals.

  “And now tell us your story, Kiera, dear,” said Mrs. T as she took a brownie off the platter.

  Kiera stepped back with terror in her eyes. “Uh . . .” She cleared her throat.

  “Pretend you’re talking to a friend,” said Puffy Fay kindly.

  “These are my nana’s,” said Kiera in an uneven voice. “I mean, my nana made them for me every year on my birthday. Dark chocolate brownies with a white chocolate drizzle, and a different ‘surprise’ ingredient every year. Always good to keep things interesting, she’d say.” Kiera smiled, and her voice became stronger. “Nana Grace died last year, and so for the first time ever, she wasn’t there to bake brownies for my birthday. Mom and I scrounged around in her notes, and we found this recipe. It wasn’t really a recipe, though. It was more like a list of things to put in the brownies, and how to change them depending on how you were feeling. So”—she took a deep breath—“when I saw those marigolds, I knew I needed to make Nana’s brownies and sprinkle them on top of the white chocolate frosting. They were her favorite flowers.”

  The audience applauded, and Kiera wiped away tears again. Though I was almost certain she’d cheated to get this far, it looked like she cared about someone other than herself after all. At least I knew she had actually baked the brownies herself.

  “Delicious brownies. Very . . . rustic. Quite a strik
ing contrast to your fancy carrot cake. It’s hard to believe they were made by the same person,” said Puffy Fay. He gave Kiera a meaningful stare.

  Kiera flushed pink and nodded shakily.

  I knew it!

  “The brownies are very rich, and the white chocolate is a great contrast to the dark.”

  “Thanks,” said Kiera faintly. “I hope I made Nana proud.”

  Puffy Fay smiled. “You definitely did.”

  The audience broke out in applause again.

  “And next it’s Mimi’s turn,” said Mrs. T, flashing me a smile.

  I brought my platter to the judges’ table. I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and then opened them again.

  “I first made these cupcakes for my best friend Emma’s birthday last year,” I said. “Sunny yellow and mysterious purple—that was us. But she moved away a few weeks ago, and I wondered whether I’d ever find a friend like her again. I was sad for a long time, but then I met someone.” My eyes started to sting. “We ate these cupcakes in the woods together. He made me feel like the world was full of adventure and fun again. We spent hours in the woods, talking, sharing food, playing music.” My voice became breathy and weak. “But then he left, too.” I cleared my throat. “When I saw the ingredients today, I knew I needed to make these cupcakes again. These cupcakes stand for friendship. Because I was lucky to have friends like that, and I believe I’ll be lucky enough find it again, and soon.”

  The audience cheered. Dad whistled piercingly.

  “A delectable mix of fruit and flowers,” said Puffy Fay. “Refreshing and sweet. I see you spent quite some time making the sugared violets, even after the first batch went wrong. Why?”

  “I wanted to make them extra-special,” I said. “I wanted to take them from pretty to . . . lovely.”

  Puffy Fay nodded and made a note. “Well, you certainly succeeded.”

  I smiled and gingerly touched the burned skin on my fingers as the crowd cheered again.

  “And now, for the final baker,” said Puffy Fay. “Guy, please bring up your creation.”

  Hoodie Boy had made cupcakes, too. They were covered in red and pink rose petals and were so rounded that they looked like mini-bouquets that a flower girl might carry at a wedding.

  The boy just stood there for the longest time, and I wondered whether he would refuse to talk. But then he straightened and took a deep breath.

  “Once there was a boy who loved his family.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  I knew that voice.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE BETRAYAL

  He continued: “He watched his father teach. He gathered flowers with his sister—roses most of all, since they were his mother’s favorite. He cooked with his mother every day, surrounded by the fragrance of roses. He tasted and laughed and listened to her sing stories of people from faraway lands. The stories wove together like a tapestry and settled in his heart.

  “And then, as swiftly as summer turns to winter, the boy’s mother died. And then his father died. And his sister died. And all the joy seeped out of teaching, and singing, and cooking. The boy went to live with his mother’s dearest friend, one she trusted and admired more than anyone.

  “And in her, he found a second mother, one who cared for him and helped him heal. And over time, he was able to find joy in teaching, and singing, and cooking again.

  “And so today I present my interpretation of a sweet from my home, one my mother used to make for me. It is decorated with roses, in memory of my mother, and in honor of the one who’s been like a mother to me ever since. My heart’s work. Red roses and pink, in tribute to them both.” The boy tugged off his hood and took off his sunglasses.

  The crowd applauded as Vik brought his platter to the judges’ table. Puffy Fay beamed in delight, but Mrs. T’s smile faded.

  “Gulab jamun, am I right?” Puffy Fay asked with his mouth full. “The inspiration for this cupcake?”

  Vik nodded. “A friend once told me she loved to take her favorite desserts and make them into something else.” He glanced at me briefly.

  Gulab jamun. I’d had it plenty of times in India. Creamy fried dumplings soaked in a sugar syrup, flavored with cardamom and—

  “Rosewater,” said Puffy Fay, “can be a tricky ingredient. But”—he smacked his lips— “you’ve done an excellent job. And you somehow managed to mimic the flavor of that very sweet dessert without making your cupcake too sweet. Fascinating.”

  “I coated rose petals in sugar and salt,” said Vik. “Sugar for laughter, and salt for tears.”

  “Now that is profound,” said Puffy Fay, scribbling in his notebook.

  Mrs. T pursed her lips. “Chef Fay, I—”

  “A few minutes, please.” Puffy continued writing.

  “I have some suggestions,” said Mrs. T, trying to peek at the notebook. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a chocolate while you’re thinking?”

  I could barely breathe. What was Vik doing here? I thought he didn’t like contests. And how had he concocted something so beautiful and delicious?

  I slapped my forehead. I was so stupid! Vik had lied to me about not liking contests, just like he’d lied about being my friend. That’s why he’d told me not to enter—he wanted to win himself! He must have plotted against me from the beginning, trying to steal my baking secrets. Once he saw I had The Book, he read as much of it as he could. And all that time we’d spent reading stories about the stupid Woodland Queen—it was just a distraction.

  I stared at the swirls in the marble counter before me.

  Vik couldn’t win. He couldn’t be the champion. He wasn’t even from Comity. He was only here for the summer!

  He couldn’t be the one to spend three days baking with Puffy Fay. He couldn’t win the internship of my dreams.

  “I need to do some thinking,” said Puffy Fay. “Let’s take a ten-minute break.” He walked out of the café with his notebook.

  “Mimi—” Vik whispered next to me. “I need to talk to you.”

  I wouldn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

  “Hey, Mimi,” said Kiera. “I . . . I just wanted to say thanks.”

  I looked at her dubiously, but she wasn’t smirking. I shrugged.

  “I didn’t know how I was going to finish. You helped me not fall flat on my face today. I’m—”

  “Mimi, come here,” Henry called, waving me over.

  I gave Kiera one last glance as I joined my family.

  “Those cupcakes looked delicious,” said Mom.

  “And what a story!” said Dad.

  Jules raised her eyebrows and play-punched me in the arm. “Can’t believe you helped Kiera after all the nasty things she’s said to you.”

  “She’s not so bad,” I said.

  “You stayed so cool, even when things went wrong,” said Henry. “Just like the top competitors on TV.”

  Riya kissed me on the cheek and hovered near me, uncharacteristically quiet.

  The room grew silent as Puffy Fay strode back to the judges’ table. “I’ve made my decision,” he said. Kiera, Vik, and I lined up. A faint crease appeared between Mrs. T’s beautiful eyes.

  “This was a difficult decision for me, because these three young people displayed not only extraordinary talent, but also incredibly inspiring stories behind their food. I make food and judge competitions for a living, but I must say there’s been something magical about this contest, and about coming back to my roots here in Comity.”

  Puffy Fay turned to Kiera, Vik, and me. “You should all be proud. No matter what happens today, keep baking.”

  The crowd thundered.

  “In third place: Kiera Jones. Kiera, your nana’s brownies were delicious, and your story was heartwarming. But your competitors’ efforts were more refined, and you only used the marigolds as a decoration without truly integrating them into your creation. Also, they could have used about five fewer minutes in the oven. Please come up to receive your award—a signed co
py of my new cookbook, The Art of Baking Magically, and a gift certificate from the While Away.”

  The audience cheered. Kiera shook hands with Puffy Fay and Mrs. T, then joined her parents. She caught my eye and smiled.

  “And now,” said Puffy Fay, “for the runner-up and winner. I have to say I honestly didn’t know how to make this decision. Both these young people made exquisite cupcakes under incredible time constraints, and we asked them to use unusual ingredients, which they both did quite skillfully. And the stories that came with these desserts were also remarkable. Mimi, your cupcakes were delightful, an excellent balance of tart and sweet, a light and fluffy cake topped with a luxurious frosting. Your use of flowers in the cake, in the frosting, and as a decoration was ingenious. The only minor suggestion I have would be to increase the contrast in taste and texture by using something else on the sweet, creamy frosting—say, a fresh, tart blackberry—as your decoration.”

  The blood drained out of my face.

  “And that brings us to Guy. It takes extraordinary talent to take an iconic dessert and translate it into a cupcake that brings something new and fresh. And that story! It was so poignant and spoke of maturity beyond your years. But the most ingenious aspect of your creation was the gorgeous rose petals, not only for the visual pleasure they bring, but for the subtlety of flavor. Sugar and salt. Laughter and tears. And so, it gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of the first annual While Away Café Midsummer Baking Contest.”

  “Chef Fay, I must insist—” said Mrs. T.

  But Puffy Fay hadn’t heard her. “The winner is: Guy Smith! I can’t wait to work with you in New York.”

  Peaseblossom and the other waitress gasped, and Mrs. T frowned as the audience roared.

  “Mimi, Guy—please come receive your awards,” said Puffy Fay.

  I barely registered the cheers of the crowd or the smile on Puffy’s face as he handed me his book. Puffy talked to Vik for a few moments, posed for photos, and handed him a card. Then he glanced at his watch, waved to the crowd, and went out to the waiting limo, which whisked him away.