Blood, Sweat and Tiers

by Nancy Warren

  I could feel the cameras trained on me—one behind, one to the side. I opened the door with my breath held.

  The mix hadn’t crystalized but set, as it should. I slid it out using oven gloves so that my hands wouldn’t freeze and brought it back to my sponges. To my horror, Jilly and Elspeth hadn’t moved on. They were waiting to see if my basil infusion would work. At least I could prove myself right at this stage.

  Jilly leaned over my bowl. “It’s an…interesting choice, to combine an herb most people associate with pizza with whipped cream.” It sounded like she wouldn’t be rushing in for a slice when the filming was done. “You’ve definitely got the odd couple brief.”

  Although I’d been expecting this kind of question, Jilly made it sound like I’d smashed up the rulebook. In fact, basil and strawberry was a pretty tried and tested combo. I’d wanted to pair two flavors that worked, after all.

  “Well,” I started, setting up my trusty electric mixer and then adding a little more sugar to my chilled bowl, “it’s an intuitive combination.” I paused for a second, trying to gather my thoughts. I needed to answer this question ASAP and get this cream whipped. “Strawberries can often be a hit or miss fruit. Sometimes they’re too watery, sometimes too tart. But by combining them with basil, its subtle, almost clove-like notes actually enhance the berries’ natural flavor. It becomes more rounded, more piquant.”

  Elspeth looked impressed by my answer, and I glowed.

  “Lucky for me, these berries were picked at Broomewode Farm only yesterday, so they haven’t traveled and they’re grown in rich, well-kept soil. And the same is true of the basil I’m using. Mixed together, these ingredients should elevate each other.” I only hoped I’d judged the sugar and water content of the berries right.

  Elspeth nodded her head appreciatively, but Jilly still looked skeptical.

  “I’m simultaneously excited and apprehensive about this, Poppy,” Jilly said.

  “Well, Jilly,” I replied with as gracious a smile as I could muster at this point, “the proof will be in the pudding, as they say.”

  I excused myself to switch on my mixer, and my audience of two divided and went to speak to the other bakers. Not a moment too soon.

  I turned the dial to a high setting and whisked the cream infusion. I needed to wait until soft peaks formed, but if they began to stiffen, it would be game over. I stared into the depths of the bowl as if it was an oracle and I was waiting to receive instructions. I stopped and tasted the mix. It was delicious but a little subtle. I added a handful of small torn basil leaves and let the whisk break them into pretty green flecks.

  Over the whirr of the mixer, I could hear Florence chatting to Elspeth. I’d been so absorbed in what I was doing that I hadn’t even asked Florence what her plan was. Last week, she’d been at the top and then near the bottom of the competition. Now I could see that she was perfectly relaxed as she gestured to her sponge.

  “It’s all about the balance of the flavors with this one,” Florence said confidently, flashing her perfect white teeth. She didn’t look stressed in the slightest. Not a bead of sweat or even a slight furrow of the brow. How did she do it? “It’s a twist on an Italian specialty. My sponge is soaked in Cinzano and strong coffee, and I’ll pair it with lemon custard.” She was using candied lemon slices and coffee beans in her decoration.

  “If I got soaked in Cinzano, I’d need strong coffee too,” Jilly said and deadpanned to the camera.

  It took Florence a second to get the joke, then she laughed, the sound as gorgeous as the rest of her.

  Perfect peaks achieved, I turned off my mixer. The next step was to fold in the macerating strawberries. First I had to strain the fruits, capturing the juice in a measuring jug so that I could drizzle it over the finished layer cake later. As I stirred, I continued to eavesdrop on Florence.

  Florence said, “I’ll flavor the custard with limoncello. When I summer by the lakes, I find it’s the tastiest way to end a lunch or dinner. Sometimes even breakfast.” She chuckled.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever indulged in it myself,” Jilly said.

  “Oh, you simply must try it,” Florence cooed. “It’s an Italian lemon liqueur, mainly produced in Southern Italy. You sip it in small glasses as a digestif. But for today’s bake, I’ve made my own in advance. It’s a family recipe, combining vodka, sugar and the best unwaxed lemons from the Amalfi Coast that I could find.”

  “A right little mixologist we’ve got here,” Jilly said, obviously impressed. Weren’t the comedians supposed to stay neutral on the show? Florence was getting a far better reaction than I had. I tried not to worry and instead concentrated on sandwiching my cakes together with the cream infusion.

  But now I couldn’t help but tune in to Florence’s voice. “And,” she continued, “the citrus of the lemon really brings out the zesty notes of the basil.”

  My head snapped up. Oh no! Florence was using basil as a key ingredient, too? How had I not found this out sooner? Now it was like we were head to head in the competition. And I didn’t fancy my chances against Florence. She was describing how she’d made a special limoncello glaze and was now putting the final touches to sugared freeze-dried basil leaves that went in some complicated pattern with the coffee beans and lemon slices.

  All those extra details and bold flavor combinations were going to add up to something truly special. I tried to stop my heart from sinking.

  I sandwiched my final layer of sponge and cream and set about coating the top with luscious peaks of cream and a careful pile of berries.

  “Five minutes, bakers,” Arty called out.

  Great, just enough time to slice those figs to decorate the base.

  But from the sounds of it, not everyone was on track. I looked up. Amara was flapping around her workstation, cries of “I’m not finished, I’m not finished” echoing around the tent. Even Maggie, usually the serene one during filming and utterly absorbed in her bake, looked stressed. I tried to focus my energy to send them both good vibes across the tent. It was so hard watching the other bakers struggle. I knew exactly the kind of panic they were experiencing. And today the hours had really flown by. Before I knew it, I was placing the final strawberry slices on the top of my cake when Arty called out that our time was up.

  I stood back from my workstation, a little amazed at what I’d managed to produce. The cake was tall and beautiful, the cream oozed gently at the sides without slipping down, and the berries were plump and bright, perfectly set off by the sliced figs around the base. What a good idea from Susan. I’d have to find some way to thank her.

  “Please bring your cakes to the table, bakers,” Elspeth commanded.

  And here we were again, a solemn line of exhausted bakers, nervously carrying our wares to be judged.

  Set out at intervals on the table, the cakes looked delightful. A bright array of colors and styles. It was funny—now that we were on week five of the competition, I felt like I could tell which cake belonged to which contestant. Maggie had kept to her traditional roots and made a beautiful stacked Victoria sponge cake. It looked like a wedding cake, decorated with flowers, fruits and nuts. I wondered if Maggie had believed mixing her decorations would fit the bill?

  Gaurav had gone with an upside-down cake, but he’d combined pineapple with coconut and caramelized rhubarb. It was pretty but not his best.

  But then I saw Florence’s cake. In a flash, my confidence crumbled and imposter syndrome took over. I couldn’t help but compare my cake to her creation. It looked so special—authentic while being innovative.

  Who was I even trying to kid? I thought I’d really outdone myself by using basil, but it wasn’t original. What if I hadn’t done enough? My stomach went cold, and I had my usual flashbacks to sitting at the back of a math class, worrying that I’d be called on to come up to the board and complete an equation. When our cakes were being judged, while we sat there pretending we didn’t know cameras were recording our every emotion, it was like our souls w
ere bared.

  “This is a very impressive array of cakes,” Elspeth said, smiling generously and taking time to look each baker in the eye. “I can see how much you’re all improving. This is going to be a tricky one to judge.”

  Time slowed as I watched Jonathon and Elspeth slice into each cake.

  “Lovely presentation,” Jonathon said when they started with Maggie’s.

  “Is it a bit ordinary?” Elspeth asked. I glanced at Maggie, but she had a sly look, almost as though she were secretly amused. Then Jonathon cut into the cake and everyone said, “Aah.” The contestants as well as the judges.

  Her cake was an array of gorgeous stripes. “But how did you do it?” Jonathon asked as though he’d never seen colored cake before.

  “I used beet for that magenta color, pistachio for the soft green, spinach for the darker green and blueberry for the blue.”

  “Gorgeous,” Elspeth said. “And the taste?”

  She and Jonathon both took a forkful. As he often did, Jonathon waited for Elspeth to give her opinion first. She nodded. “Amazing. Beautiful flavor, very nice crumb, and the décor is exquisite. Well done.”

  Maggie beamed as they moved on. As usual, they doled a mix of compliments and criticisms—the expressions of the other bakers matching their rising and falling hopes. Hamish had perhaps the most interesting combination. He’d used the Scottish thistle. “I foraged for them myself. Very carefully. Using gloves,” he told Jonathon when he asked. “Also dark beer and some dry mustard.”

  “Interesting,” said Jonathon on first tasting the chocolate cake.

  “Indeed. Very piquant. But a little heavy,” Elspeth said.

  Gaurav received praise for his tropical creation and Daniel criticism for the burned edges he hadn’t quite managed to disguise. “I think your flavor combination could have been more daring,” Elspeth finished.

  Amara seemed to neither excite nor disappoint the judges, and then there were two left. Two basil cakes. On the surface, they were nothing alike, but their flavor profile was two sides of the same coin—like twin sisters separated at birth.

  Elspeth complimented the neat layers of my cake and its bright colors. “But does it taste as good as it looks?” she asked. Jonathon nodded solemnly, and I tried to control my face as he picked up the knife and cut through the cream.

  Jonathon spoke first. “This is rather tasty. The fruit is sweet and sticky, the cream rich and gooey, the sponge is fluffy. Only this is—I’m not getting enough of the basil flavor.”

  “Indeed,” Elspeth said, nodding. “So much to like here. It’s a well put together cake. But that basil flavor is lacking. I think perhaps the cream needed to infuse for longer.”

  I hung my head. Lack of flavor. I felt like such a dummy. I knew it had been a gamble trying to squeeze in making that basil cream. And now my cake had underwhelmed the judges. How could I make such a rookie mistake? But there was no time to ruminate as the judges bit into Florence’s cake.

  “Bellissimo!” Jonathon said. “I feel as if I’ve been transported to the Amalfi Coast. I’m getting fresh, zesty lemon, green, herby basil, and it all goes so well with the coffee custard.”

  “Mmm,” Elspeth agreed. “This is really quite something. A flavor explosion, I’d say.”

  If my head could have sunk to my knees, it would have. A flavor explosion.

  Florence had delivered. My pretty layer cake was the frustrated bridesmaid to her glorious bride.

  Elspeth and Jonathon moved to the back of the tent to confer, and I looked at the other contestants to gauge how they were feeling. Not a single confident face—except Florence. She was glowing with pride. And deservedly so. I just wished that I didn’t feel like I was the ugly twin sister.

  Elspeth and Jonathon returned, and the cameras changed angles to capture our reactions. I tried not to look as downhearted as I felt.

  “Bakers,” Elspeth began, “this was a fun round of signature bakes, and we appreciate your clever use of ingredients. But Jonathon and I are in agreement that by far the most impressive cake was…”

  If only I could have a thousand dollars to correctly guess the winner.

  “…Florence!” Jonathon finished.

  Well duh, I wanted to say. Instead, I clapped her on the back and said congratulations.

  “In second place is Maggie,” Jonathon continued.

  “And in third place we have…Poppy.”

  “What?!” I accidentally cried out, incredulous. “I thought I’d blown it.”

  Jonathon shook his head, laughing. “Not at all. It was a delightful cake which demonstrated your flair for baking. Just a little more basil next time.”

  The cameras stopped rolling, and I let out my breath.

  I was so relieved. And famished! Thank goodness it was time for lunch.

  Chapter 8

  En masse, we moved to the buffet table that had been erected outside the tent as we’d baked. Today we had a greater variety than usual, and it was hard not to drool at the array of food on offer. Sausage rolls, mini quiche Lorraines, mini tandoori chicken kebabs on sticks, a green tomato salad with vinaigrette, and a creamy-looking potato salad topped with chives. Yum.

  “Wow, they really went the whole hog with today’s spread,” Daniel said, reaching for a plate. “What do you think this means? The show’s been canceled and we’re all going home?”

  I managed to smile, but I couldn’t really deal with his gallows humor. Too much was in the balance for me to even contemplate that this could be my last weekend.

  “Don’t tempt fate,” I said. “She’s a cruel mistress. One foul word and she might change the course of your destiny.”

  “Didn’t have you down for that earth-mother stuff,” he joked back.

  Well, actually, Daniel, my element is water, not earth, so in a way you’re right.

  I picked up a plate and began helping myself to salads and a couple of chicken kebabs. I was going to have to keep my strength up for the technical bake this afternoon, after all.

  The contestants had made a picnic area of sorts, and I was about to join them when I heard a familiar woof. And I do mean familiar.

  “Sly?” I said, turning around.

  The border collie came bounding over, but straightaway, I noticed that there was no ball in his mouth.

  I set my plate back on the table. “What are you doing here, boy?” I asked, bending down to give him a stroke. “Is something wrong?” I thought Sly was trying to communicate something with his presence. “Is Susan okay?” I asked him. He barked happily. “Okay, so it’s not that,” I mused. Was I being paranoid? Sly did like to venture away from the farm and go off on his own expeditions. Maybe he was hoping for a slice of cake or more likely a piece of chicken from my plate.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I whispered, setting down a chunk of meat. He gobbled it up. But I wasn’t convinced that Sly was only here to mooch.

  Instead of sitting with the others, I took my plate and walked away from the tent in the direction of the manor house. Sly ambled along at my side.

  The grass had been freshly mown, and its clean scent reset my nose after hours of smelling nothing but cake. The day was warm, and apart from a few white cotton wool clouds, the sky was clear blue. I checked for the hawk. Nothing. I hoped he was okay. A single green leaf fluttered by on the breeze, dropped into the lake, and floated silently on the surface. Was that why Sly was here? Was he guiding me to the lake?

  Before I could get any closer, a superior-sounding voice blasted through the air.

  “Ms. Applebaum, that is really none of your concern.”

  Ms. Applebaum? The voice was coming from the direction of the staff entrance. I circled the lake until a group of people came into view. It was the bird-watchers…and the earl! Aha, good for them. They’d cornered Lord Frome and from the looks of it were giving him a real earful about his hunting antics.

  Ever the loyal sidekick, the gamekeeper, Arthur, stood slightly in front of his boss like a human shi
eld. What did Arthur think these bird-watchers were going to do? Take down the earl with their binoculars? Marlene was at the front, wagging her finger in Arthur’s face. Her last name must be Applebaum. She looked as stern as a schoolteacher. Maybe the earl had finally met his haughty match. I looked down to say as much to Sly, but he’d disappeared. Was this what he’d wanted to show me?

  I felt eyes on my back and turned to see Edward regarding the scene with mirth. He had a pair of gardening shears in one hand and raised the other in hello. I smiled, and he gestured for me to join him.

  “It’s always nice to see your boss get taken down a peg or two by a pensioner,” Edward said, laughing. His pale skin had turned pink in the sun, and he slipped a green baseball cap over his blond hair.

  “I suspect Marlene over there isn’t afraid of anyone. Not even the great Lord Frome. She cares more about wildlife than titles. And I don’t think she’s going to back down before she gets him to change his ways.”

  “Lord Frome gives as good as he gets. And he doesn’t take kindly to those who differ from his way of thinking.” He lowered his voice. “Especially the peasants.”

  I chuckled and looked again at the scene. Even though he was greatly outnumbered, the earl didn’t seem in the slightest bit disturbed by being faced with a rowdy group of bird-watchers. He seemed annoyed by the inconvenience. The earl argued loudly with Marlene, and I was surprised by his lack of decorum. Wasn’t he supposed to represent the British aristocracy? Where was his stiff upper lip?

  “How’s it going in the tent?” Edward asked.

  But before I could answer, Hamish’s loud baritone voice called my name.

  “Oops. Lunch break must be over,” I said, excusing myself. It was time to put my head back in the baking game. But not before I scoffed the last of my potato salad, of course.

  Chapter 9

  “Where did you disappear off to?” Florence asked as we stood at our workstations waiting for the technical challenge to be announced.