“How so?”
“I guess they think I’m a bum because I can’t hold down a job.”
“A bum?”
“Okay, so they haven’t exactly come out and said it, but that’s the way they make me feel.” He squared his shoulders. “But it’s not true. I have an entrepreneurial spirit. I was born to be the boss.”
“Of what?” I asked as I finished putting the remaining pans in the oven.
He paused, his gaze shifting to the ground, then finally looked my way. “The world?” A chuckle followed. “Kidding. But if you’d asked me when I was a kid, that would’ve been my answer. Problem was, in my house there were so many of us that no one even asked that question. I think everyone just assumed we’d all go to work for the pizzeria. Or the wedding facility. Anything else seemed outside the realm of possibility. You know?”
Actually, I did know. From the time I came out of the womb, my parents had been grooming me for church work. Or missions. I’d known it all along, especially as an only child. Heaven forbid I decide to become a brain surgeon or anything shameful like that. My mother would probably crawl into a hole and avoid all of the other church ladies should it come to that. Her heart would certainly be gripped with pain if I opted out of my designated calling.
But cakes were my calling. Right? I peeked through the glass into the oven. So far, so good on this batch.
Not that cake baking would keep me from going on missions trips. No sir. I’d felt the tug to do missions work at an early age and couldn’t wait to hit the tarmac running. Once we raised the funds, anyway.
Armando kept talking, but my thoughts had shifted. If anyone understood this sort of pressure from parents, I did, though my mom and dad were subtle. They didn’t come out and say, “You’re going to marry a pastor,” but they had mentioned in passing—maybe ten or twenty thousand times—that my future would be brighter than a copper penny should I marry such a man. Never once in the history of my upbringing did I remember them saying, “Hey, Scarlet, why don’t you marry a no-account bum who jumps from job to job because he gets bored easily? And while you’re at it, ask him to help you stack cakes into the shape of the Coliseum, because we’re pretty sure your life will be grand if you do.”
I cringed, in part because I couldn’t imagine my mother saying that last part, and in part because I couldn’t figure out why I was suddenly thinking of marrying Armando.
I’m marrying Armando?
I shook off that bizarre idea in a hurry. A girl couldn’t very well marry someone she hardly knew, especially someone as unsuited for her. No, I’d better stick with Kenny. Good, solid, reliable Kenny, who was in church every time the doors were open. Who gave of himself to the poor. Who smiled in spite of the pain in his arm. Who called to check on me even when the attention should be on him. Who baked a mean chocolate cake and built some amazing lopsided shelves in my kitchen.
Yes, Kenny was looking better all the time. If only I could fall in love with him. Wouldn’t that be grand?
But as I gazed at Armando, as I pretended to listen while he carried on about the Rossi family, I realized he too was looking better all the time. In fact, as I stared into those cocoa-brown eyes—eyes that held me spellbound—it occurred to me that this shirtless, no-account bum driving his proverbial golf cart straight through the heart of my kitchen had never looked so good.
13
A Piece of Cake
Let’s face it, a nice creamy chocolate cake does a lot for a lot of people; it does for me.
Audrey Hepburn
Very few things in life intimidate me. Short of Aunt Willy, of course. But I have to admit that walking onto the set of Cakes Galore at the Food Network studios terrified me on every level. We were given one hour to bring in our supplies and get them set up, but I spent much of that time trying to calm my nerves.
I made my way across the studio, my gaze shifting to the large camera above. It loomed in ghostlike fashion as if taunting me. I would have to remember never to reveal my backside. Aunt Willy would probably come up with some kind of wisecrack about my sticky buns looking even bigger on television.
Behind me, Armando let out a whistle. “Man. This is something else.”
“I know, right?” I turned to face him, noticing what looked like a hint of fear in his eyes. Really? He’d been on television before, on his aunt’s show.
Seconds later he looked completely relaxed and gazed at the camera with a boyish smile. Likely this was all no big deal to him. It was a huge deal to me, though. Probably the hugest thing that would ever happen to me. What other girl from Lufkin, Texas, had the opportunity to fly to Los Angeles to appear on national television on a cake show?
I worked alongside Armando setting up our station. He paused periodically to comment on the various cameras and microphones hovering above us. Seemed he was more fascinated by all of that than the cake we would be baking in less than an hour.
Stay focused, boy! Stay focused!
I tried to reel him in but found it nearly impossible. Maybe his distraction was a good sign. If he didn’t get too worked up now, maybe he’d stay relaxed throughout. Then at least one of us wouldn’t be freaked out.
At nine o’clock a.m., the television audience entered the studio, along with the judges. I’d met them earlier, but seeing them face-to-face terrified me. One of them—an older woman with a fascinating updo—wore a stern look on her face, even when offering bits of encouragement.
A producer introduced us to the other contestants, all network regulars. I was particularly taken with the Alvarez family and could hardly wait to see what they would come up with. The Scotch-Irish clan was keeping their lips sealed about their plan of action, but the African contingent dressed in colorful aprons, clueing me in to the fact that we had a whopper of a cake to anticipate from their team.
As we settled into place, I heard cheers from the audience members. Glancing out, I saw Bella. She gave me a little wave and I waved back. Our two aunties flanked her, one on each side. To Willy’s right, my mother cheered, and my father—God bless him—leaned forward, elbows on knees, as if ready to spring to the stage to my defense if I should need him.
I might.
And then there were the Splendora sisters and Uncle Donny. How they’d managed to get tickets, I couldn’t say. Rosa must’ve arranged it. Still, I couldn’t have asked for a better cheering section. Twila, Bonnie Sue, and Jolene whooped and hollered, almost to the point of causing embarrassment. Oh well. Better too much confidence than too little, right? And it didn’t hurt that so many cheered us on. Bolstered my faith, for sure. I knew those Splendora ladies were praying, which also helped.
Glancing at Armando, I offered a bold smile. “We can do this,” I said.
He nodded and whacked me on the back, good-old-boy style. “Yep. We’ll get ’er done.”
I cringed and hoped Aunt Willy hadn’t overheard. She was probably envisioning him on a golf cart now. Without a shirt, of course.
A tiny giggle escaped me as I remembered the advice my theater director had given me in high school: “Picture the audience members in their underwear, Scarlet. It’ll help you overcome your nerves.”
Somehow envisioning my aunt Willy in her granny panties only made me more nervous, so I shifted my attention back to the cakes. There would be plenty of time to imagine everyone in their tighty-whities later.
Not that we had time for such nonsense. The announcer gave the audience some instructions and pointed to the clock. Before I knew it, the “get to it!” buzzer sounded, and we were off to the races. The director snapped the scene board, and I tried to focus on the cake but found it difficult with a cameraman in my face.
Step away, mister! You’re not ruining this for me!
Releasing a slow breath, I did my best to look relaxed.
Fat chance.
Armando, on the other hand, looked perfectly natural in front of the camera. No doubt. He definitely had the upper hand, thanks to his family’s years in the indu
stry. The cameraman shifted the camera in Armando’s direction just in time to see him hefting three of our largest cakes from the fridge. Thank goodness he had muscular arms. I found myself mesmerized by them, in fact.
As I stared at Armando’s biceps, my breath caught in my throat and I couldn’t remember what to do. I’d rehearsed it dozens of times before, but with my mind in a blank state, I stood frozen. The world continued to spin. At least, I think it did, but I couldn’t seem to move.
“We can do this.” Armando leaned my way. “Trust me, Scarlet,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m not going to let you down.” His words gave me the courage I needed to get this show on the road.
In that moment, as I gazed into those gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes, as 250 audience members looked on . . . I believed him. Trusted him. Saw in him what others had apparently not seen over the years. Talent. Skill. Dependability. All of this was wrapped up in a strong, handsome physique, which certainly didn’t hurt.
For a second I focused solely on the previously baked cakes in my station—cakes I’d worked hard to prepare—then I looked at Armando. He brushed a loose hair off of his forehead and grinned. “Take us there, captain. Just tell me what to do. I’m all yours.”
“We should probably . . .” I glanced at the cakes. “You start stacking and cutting. I’ll get to work on the frosting.”
“You got it.” He started working on the largest of the cakes, which would make up the base of the Coliseum.
I still couldn’t quite picture how we would accomplish the details of this monstrosity once the whole thing was put together. Sure, I’d brought molds to make the arches, but with nearly a hundred of them needed, would we have time? And would they harden in this heat?
I glanced up at the overhead lights and groaned as a tiny bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. Brushing it away, I kept working.
Stay focused, Scarlet. Stay focused.
Still, the whole thing seemed overwhelming. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the clock as the first hour ticked down. Really? An hour? Didn’t we just start?
And who came up with this idea for the Coliseum, anyway? I second-guessed myself a dozen times as Armando stacked and cut, stacked and cut. What made me think we could build such a monstrosity in only six hours? And using an Italian cream cake recipe, to boot? Ugh! This recipe was heavy. Bulky. Kind of like my thighs.
But now my thighs weren’t quite as large as they’d once been, were they? No. Thanks to three weeks of crash dieting, I’d trimmed off seventeen pounds. Likely some sort of world record was due me, but there was no time to think about that now. I had far more important things to tend to.
Like the gladiators.
I ran to the back shelves and pulled out the mold to start making the little fondant gladiators. We needed a handful of them. Not many. But their placement in the center of the Coliseum would make the whole thing believable and would convey the symbolism that Rosa had asked for.
Why, Scarlet? What sort of crazy plan have you agreed to? Who puts gladiators in a wedding cake? How unromantic is that?
Of course, the beautiful arches would add the element of romance. Once I reminded myself of that, I felt a little better about the situation. For a minute, anyway.
Arches! I needed hundreds of them! Better get busy on those. Molding and shaping hundreds of them would take most of the day. And if we missed those, the whole plan would crumble.
But first I would finish the cream cheese frosting. I needed buckets of the stuff, and only homemade would do. We had to get through the taste test in order to impress the judges, and what better way than with superior, homemade frosting? The yummy stuff offered more temptation than everything else put together. I could eat it by the bucketful, in fact. If I could just remember how to make it.
Is it getting hotter in here, or is it just me?
Okay, it’s definitely getting hotter.
And what’s up with the squishy feeling in my stomach? Why, Lord? Why now?
Ribbons of liquid weaseled their way down the center of my back. The dampness cooled me down a bit but didn’t serve to calm my nerves—or my stomach. It continued to roll like the waves in the Pacific, churning, churning, churning.
Chocolate. Chocolate. Where’s the white chocolate for the arches?
I’d brought tons of it. But where was it?
Oh, right. On the shelf.
As I stared at the shelf, I thought about Kenny and his arm. What a sweet guy to put up new shelves for me. And what a price he’d paid. His poor arm. I whispered a quick prayer for him, then tried to regroup.
Shelves.
What was I supposed to be doing again?
Oh yes, chocolate.
I saw it, but a wave of nausea prevented me from grabbing it. Ugh.
“Scarlet, are you okay?” Armando paused from his cutting to glance my way.
I gave him what probably looked like a wild-eyed nod and kept going. “I need chocolate.”
“There’s no time to eat right now, honey.” He gave me a wink.
“Not. To. Eat.” Though I definitely needed something to eat. Skipping breakfast probably hadn’t been my smartest move, but who had time for breakfast? With my sticky buns being so large and all . . .
No, I couldn’t think about my sticky buns right now. I had other things to do.
What was I doing again?
Oh yes, the chocolate.
I groaned, then located the missing white chocolate pieces and went to work melting them in the double boiler. Though I watched over them like a hawk, something seemed wrong.
No way.
The first batch hardened on me just as the overhead camera swung close. I threw out the batch just as we passed the two-hour mark. Off in the distance, Bella cheered, but when I glanced her way, the concern in my aunt’s eyes sent a shiver down my spine.
Not that shivering was a bad thing. Not in this heat. I needed to cool down. Needed to think.
Think, Scarlet. Think. You’ve melted chocolate a thousand times before and it’s never hardened on you. Do. It. Again. This. Time. Do. It. Right.
Probably sensing my terror, Armando paused from his cutting to help me. He whispered words of encouragement in my ear and managed to get me calmed down, though the weird out-of-body experience continued. For a minute, I envisioned this all as some sort of hazy dream. I would wake up and laugh, then tell Mama about my wacky television debut.
It’s not a dream.
Armando began to hum a happy tune. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it calmed my nerves. Sort of.
I went to work on the arches, ribbons of sweat trickling down my back. I’d prepared myself psychologically for so many things but hadn’t given any thought to the heat. The room had to be at least ninety degrees. Likely the frosting would cause the cakes to go slip-sliding off of each other. Why oh why had I gone with the cream cheese frosting idea? Fondant would’ve been so much neater, especially with this heat.
Oh. Help.
And why wouldn’t these little molds cooperate? I’d used them back home and they didn’t give me fits. Why here?
Oh, right. The heat. It caused the chocolate to stick to the molds.
Refrigerator. Put them in the refrigerator.
Brilliant idea, Scarlet.
I’d put the frosting in there for a few minutes to stay cool until we needed it. Then again, cream cheese frosting hardened in the fridge, didn’t it? Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea after all.
Only if you leave it in there too long, Scarlet. You can do this.
I stood in front of the open fridge for a moment, trying to cool down, but it didn’t seem to help. The camera swung behind me, and I could almost envision the voice-over: “Crazed baker cools buns in fridge.”
I checked on the frosting and found it to be in decent shape. Not too runny. A few more minutes in the fridge wouldn’t hurt.
Armando didn’t seem terribly concerned about the heat, but he wouldn’t be. What did he know about cakes, really? I c
ould count on him to lift and lug, to stack and cut, but decorating? I’d have to do that on my own, slippery frosting or not.
“You okay over there?” Armando spoke with a forced smile as the camera swung back my way. I could read the fear in his eyes as he took in my haggard appearance.
I nodded, but I could feel the river of sweat now flowing down the small of my back.
As the camera moved on to the next duo, he drew near. “You look kind of . . . sick.”
“Is it hot in here?” I whispered through clenched teeth.
“It’s warm, but nothing unbearable.”
“I just feel a little . . . weird.”
“Hope you’re not coming down with something.” Armando looked alarmed. “Do you need to sit down?”
I drew in a couple of deep breaths and whispered, “What would Lucy do?”
“Lucy?” Armando looked perplexed by that question. “I don’t know anyone named Lucy.”
“Well, I do. She had Lady Clairol red hair just like me.”
“Ah. That Lucy.”
“Yes, that Lucy. And she would keep going. No. Matter. What.” I raised my frosting-covered spoon in the air triumphantly, but doing so upped my wooziness. Oops. Closing my eyes, I sucked in a couple of deep breaths and willed myself to stay calm.
At this point, the show’s emcee stopped by to ask why we’d chosen to go with the Coliseum cake. The camera swung around in a close-up of my sweaty face. Great. I knew I should explain the role the Coliseum had played in Rosa and Laz’s love story, but how? With the room spinning, I could barely collect my thoughts.
“Oh, it’s, um . . .” I blinked several times and tried to focus.
Thank God for Armando. He jumped in and, with a twinkle in his eye, shared the whole tale, even growing misty as he mentioned his aunt and uncle overcoming their sparring to fall in love.
I continued to work as he shared, but the heat was really getting to me. I paused to take a few breaths as the camera shifted to the next group of contestants.
After several deep breaths, I remembered the I Love Lucy episode that took place in the chocolate factory—the one with the out-of-control conveyor belt. If Lucy could handle the stress, so could I.
The Icing on the Cake Page 12
