I can’t think of anything worse. My heart sinks into my black ballet pumps as I trudge out of the building and back into the hot, smelly streets of London. I haven’t eaten a proper meal for over twenty-four hours and my head is throbbing.
I find a cafe nearby and order a fried egg on toast and a cup of tea but my throat seems to be closing up and cafes never seem to be able to cook a fried egg the way I like it. When I do them at home I use super-hot olive oil and cook the egg on a high heat, spooning the oil over the white to avoid that horrid jelly bit around the yoIk. I like the edges nice and frizzled and crispy and the yolk soft and hot. This egg is all the wrong way round. The white is soggy and cold and the yolk has turned to thick yellow rubber. I find it hard to shove the greasy food down my throat and without Creon it’s not going to get digested properly anyway, so in the end I give up and just have the tea.
I feel another mega-coughing session coming on, so I pay and leave the cafe straight away. Then I find a small square of green in the centre of the busy streets and sit on a bench. I hack my guts up, rattling and retching and gasping for breath and then everything goes kind of spinny, so I clutch at the edge of the bench and tell myself not to panic, but it’s no good.
I’m really struggling for every breath now. I’m not sure how I’m going to even stand up straight, let alone get back to the TV studios and cook my three recipes again in front of the cameras for real this time.
I sit with my head buried in my hands, trying to think.
In the end I do the only thing I can think of doing.
The thing I didn’t want to do at all.
I fumble in my jeans pocket and open my mobile phone.
Sticky German Gingerbread with Vanilla Custard
For the gingerbread, you will need:
230g (8oz) butter
230g (8oz) soft brown sugar
170g (6oz) golden syrup
60g (2oz) black treacle
340g (12oz) self-raising flour
2 eggs, beaten
2 level dessert spoons of ground ginger
1 level dessert spoon of ground cinnamon
A pinch of salt
1 level teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda
230ml (7 fl oz) warm milk
For the vanilla custard, you will need:
200ml (7oz) milk
200ml (7oz) double cream
1 vanilla pod, split seeds scraped out (you can find vanilla pods in the baking section of most supermarkets)
75g (2½oz) caster sugar
2 free-range egg yolks (you can use non free-range, but these do taste better and are much kinder to the hens)
Preheat the oven to 150°C/300°F/gas mark 2. Grease and line a two-pound loaf tin (or an 11 ½ x 7 ½ inch round tin) – you can line it with greaseproof paper which is easily found in the supermarket.
Get a large saucepan and slowly melt together the treacle, sugar and butter on a low heat. When the mixture is nice and gloopy, remove from the heat and stir in the beaten eggs. Sieve the flour, salt, cinnamon and ginger into the melted mixture.
Sieve the bicarbonate of soda into a mixing bowl and pour the warm milk over it. Add this to the treacle mixture, stirring well to combine all the ingredients. Pour into the tin and bake for about 1 ½ hours.
Allow the gingerbread to cool in the tin before removing.
If you like the top of your gingerbread to be extra messy and sticky and delicious – which, let’s face it, I do, because I’m obsessed with this stuff – then brush some more golden syrup over the top while the cake is still warm.
To make the vanilla custard, place the milk, cream and the vanilla pod and seeds into a saucepan on a low heat. Bring gently to the boil, then remove from the heat and remove the vanilla pod.
Whisk the sugar and egg yolks together in a large bowl with a hand whisk (or a fork if you haven’t got one) until pale and frothy. Pour the egg mixture over the milk and cream and whisk together. Pour the mixture into a clean saucepan and continue whisking over a low heat until a frothy custard is formed. Then pour into a jug and serve with a big, thick slice of the German gingerbread.
Chapter Fourteen
Harry answers on the first ring. He never usually does that so I know I’m in trouble.
‘Mel!’ he says. ‘Where are you? I’ve been trying to call you all morning.’
I sigh and swallow down great lumps of mucus in an effort to be able to talk to him. Just hearing his low, kind voice is making me want to sob for England.
‘I’m in Bloomsbury,’ I whisper, but still trying to be heard above the roar of traffic. ‘I’m doing the competition, you know?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ says Harry. ‘I didn’t think you’d actually be stupid enough to go behind your mum’s back. You do know that she’s furious? And going out of her mind with worry?’
I sit up straight.
‘You’ve spoken to her?’ I say. ‘Why?’
‘Er, why do you think?’ says Harry. ‘You didn’t come home last night. She thought you might be with me. Oh, and she spoke to Gemma after that and read your letter. So she knows exactly where you’ve gone.’
‘Well, not exactly,’ I mutter, flushing even though he can’t see me. ‘She can’t know exactly.’
‘Stop being an idiot,’ says Harry in a voice quite unlike his normal mild one. ‘She’s in bits. You were supposed to be at the hospital now.’
‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I just had to do this competition. You know how much it means to me.’
‘Well, yeah,’ says Harry. ‘I do. But maybe your mother should mean more to you?’
There’s a silence while I digest the horribleness of what I’ve done.
‘Anyway,’ says Harry. ‘She’s in a bit of a state at home and your dad’s with her. So I suggested that I come up to London and get you and we come home together on the train. The hospital says you can still be admitted tonight if you get a move on.’
I scowl against the blinding light of the sun. I’m sitting on a bench which has no shade whatsoever.
‘I’m not coming home until I’ve done the competition,’ I say. ‘I’m here now and I’ve already done the rehearsal. Hold on.’
I cover the mouthpiece and bend over to cough. When I’ve finished there’s a loud sigh from Harry on the other end of the line.
‘Are you taking your medication?’ he says. ‘You sound dead rough.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, feebly. I hang onto the phone as if it were the last possession I’m ever going to have. I don’t want to lose the feeling of Harry’s voice in my ear, even if he IS cross with me.
‘Have you had your pills today?’ says Harry. He’s not going to give up.
I wait a moment to make sure that I really need to say what I’m about to say, but then I go dizzy again and everything spins round.
‘I lost my meds bag,’ I say in a small voice. ‘On the train. So I haven’t had anything since yesterday afternoon.’
‘Christ, Mel,’ says Harry. He sounds as if he’s going to burst a few major blood vessels. ‘Why didn’t you ring me? Or find a doctor? Or come home. Are you stupid or something?’
He’s so angry that I melt into a puddle of insecurity and begin to cry.
‘I just wanted to prove that I could do something,’ I say in between sobs. ‘I hate being the stupid girl with CF who can’t do anything because she gets out of breath.’
That’s a silly thing to say because now I’m so out of breath that I can’t really talk.
‘OK, so you’ve got to London on your own,’ says Harry. ‘Big frigging deal. And now you’re in trouble so I’m coming to get you. I’ve promised your mum, anyway. Give me the name of the place you’re staying at.’
He’s not really going to take any more argument from me. I can tell from the tone of his voice.
Harry takes down the name and address of the B&B and the TV studio.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m going to the station now. Should be with you by 2. I’ll go to your house first and get the m
eds. Stay at the B&B and don’t go anywhere, OK?’
‘I need to be in hair and make-up at 2.30,’ I say in a small protesting voice, but Harry makes a noise of disgust.
‘Love you,’ I say to the phone, but he’s hung up.
I sit on the bench and the floodgates finally open.
I cry and cry and cry.
***
By the time it gets towards 2 I feel calmer.
I’ve decided what I’m going to do.
I’m going to ring Harry and tell him – tell, not ask – that I am going to do the competition whether he likes it or not. Then if I don’t do well I will come home with him, and if I do we can both stay in the B&B and I will call Mum and tell her that I’m OK, but that I won’t be having the operation.
I’m back in my room, sitting on the bed. I’ve changed into a prettier top with flowers on, but kept the same jeans. I’ve bought a new bottle of shampoo and washed my hair, even though it takes me about ten times longer than usual, because I have to keep stopping and leaning against the shiny white tiles of the bathroom wall to catch my breath.
I put on a smear of pink lipgloss to cover up my blue lips and survey myself in the mirror.
‘Better,’ I say. Then I double over and cough until I’m sick. The next time I look in the mirror the lipgloss is smeared and my mascara has made damp black marks down my cheeks.
‘Oh well,’ I say. ‘They’re going to do my make-up anyway.’
I glance at my watch. It’s just gone 2 now and I’ve got to get in a cab in the next five minutes or else I won’t get to the studios in time.
Where’s Harry?
I try his mobile a couple of times but it goes straight to voicemail. Then my phone rings while I’m holding it and I nearly drop it in fright. ‘Mum’ flashes up on the caller display, so I switch the phone right off in a panic and shove it back into my jeans. I can’t cope with Mum’s anger at the moment. She is so going to give me the biggest telling off known to man. Or girl. And if Dad gets hold of me I’m going to be toast – and not the lovely, crunchy white organic sort either, but the thin black charred variety made using rubbish sliced bread.
When it gets to 2.15 I can’t wait any longer.
I get downstairs as fast as I can and run outside to hail a cab. The running is not a good idea but I can’t be late for the quarter-finals of Best Teen Baker.
I just can’t.
***
At 2.30 I’m sitting in a white-painted room full of gleaming mirrors and vases of red flowers. A lady called Chell, which I’m guessing might be short for Michelle, is puffing powder all over my face with a big soft brush.
‘Anti-shine,’ she says. ‘Those TV lights can be very hot and unforgiving. Mind you, you’ve got lovely skin. Wish mine was as good.’
That’s the first nice thing anybody’s said to me about my appearance for ages and it makes me want to cry. Crying is so not a good thing to do when you have CF, as the illness already gives you blocked sinuses and crying screws up your breathing and I’ve already done too much of it today, so I wait until I’m sure my voice isn’t going to wobble and I thank her.
‘Sure I can’t get you another drink, love?’ she says, spraying my hair with some horrid chemical-smelling stuff. I grip my lips shut and try not to breathe any of it in. Everything in this make-up room is a potential cough hazard. ‘I hear you’ve had the flu.’
I offer her a weak smile and shake my head. If only I did have the flu. If I had the flu it would go away in a few days and I’d be healthy again. If I had the flu my worried boyfriend wouldn’t be travelling across the country to get me and my angry mother wouldn’t be on the warpath of anxiety and rage.
‘You do look a bit pale,’ Michelle says, considering my face. ‘Tiny bit more blush, don’t you think?’
Actually I don’t think. I already look like a peach that has been boiled in redcurrant juice. But she adds a bit more colour to my cheekbones and stands back to survey her handiwork.
‘There,’ she says. ‘We’ve done a good job of covering up your lurgy!’
I snort and then try to cover it up by blowing my nose. If only she and everyone here knew the true story behind my ‘lurgy’. Probably just as well they don’t, or else I’d be in a London hospital bed right now and not about to enter the competition I’ve been waiting to get to for so long.
Underneath my excitement and nerves I feel so ill that I reckon I might just keel over and die at any point soon, but I’m determined to bake my chocolate fondants, my gingerbread and my biscuits and wow the judges with them first. Then at least I could die happy. Or part-happy, because actually I really want to get through to the semi-finals too.
‘There isn’t anybody waiting for me in reception, is there?’ I say to Michelle. ‘My boyfriend is supposed to be coming.’
Michelle sends another girl out down to reception to look, but she comes back and shakes her head.
‘Oh well,’ I say. ‘He must have got stuck on a train somewhere.’
I feel disappointed and relieved all at the same time. I could do without him giving me a major lecture, but then again he’s got all my meds and I need them like yesterday.
And if I saw Harry’s sweet face, I know I’d cook the best I’ve ever cooked.
Just to make him proud of me again.
***
We’re standing behind our cook stations primed for action.
The cameras begin to roll and the presenter of the programme steps forwards. He’s a large man with a polished bald head and glasses and he’s wearing a grey pin-striped suit. He looks more like a double-glazing salesman than the host of a cookery programme I reckon, but he’s got a big grin and when we were all introduced to him just before the cameras began to roll, he took the trouble to have a chat with each of us in turn.
The man’s got a camera pointing at him now and he introduces the programme and says a bit about the competition. Then some dramatic music comes pounding into the studio and the man holds his breath for a moment, looks up at us where we’re standing in our aprons behind our cookers and then bellows out, ‘ONE, TWO, THREE – LET’S BAKE!’
My legs go weak. I put the oven on, grease my cake tin, grab my mixing bowl and start tipping flour onto the scales.
Right. This is it. This is the day that will affect the rest of my life.
I start with the gingerbread as it takes longest to cook. I put butter and brown sugar in a vast steel saucepan, stirring with a wooden spoon until they melt into a smooth brown puddle, then I pour in the golden syrup and black treacle. When it’s all broken down into a thick sticky mixture, I beat in a couple of large eggs. Then in the big mixing bowl next to me I put flour, powdered ginger, eggs, salt and cinnamon and then tip the whole lot into the glorious gooey treacle mix. I stir for ages to make sure all the ingredients are mixed in otherwise there will be uneven clumps of flour in the middle of the cake. The spicy, gingery buttery smell is like heaven. Then I fold in warm milk mixed with bicarbonate of soda until the texture changes from a sticky dark brown to pale, cappuccino-coloured foam, which begins to rise up towards the rim of the saucepan. I taste a spoonful and nod. It’s ready. I pick up the pan and tip the rich frothy mixture into my prepared loaf tins and then I slam them into the oven on a medium heat to cook for just under an hour.
Macaroons next. I grease a baking tray with butter and line it with edible rice paper. Then I mix together my sugar, ground almonds and ground rice. I add some almond essence and an egg white and then beat the whole mixture until it’s ready to be piped in little circles onto the rice paper. I add an almond to the top of each biscuit and can’t resist popping one into my mouth. Uh-oh. Dumb idea. Nuts are not good when you are trying not to cough. I take a swig from my bottle of water and try to calm the choking feeling. Then I whiz the macaroons into the oven for twenty-five minutes. I wipe the sweat off my head with my right arm and make a mental note to trim the rice paper to fit each biscuit when they’re baked.
Then I at last turn my
attention to making the chocolate fondants. This is the most risky of my three dishes. The right cooking time is essential to get the runny chocolate centre inside the sponge. If you cook them too long they just become like chocolate cake instead.
I melt dark chocolate and butter together in a bowl over a saucepan of hot water. Then in a big brown mixing bowl I beat together my sugar, egg yolks, whole eggs and flour. I pour the melted chocolate mixture into this bowl and then fold in the flour with a large metal spoon. I scoop up a fingerful of mixture and test it. It’s sweet, but with a slight undertone of bitterness from the cocoa-rich chocolate. Perfect. I dollop the chocolaty mix into six small round baking tins and put them into my pre-heated oven to cook for ten minutes.
All three dishes are in the oven. Result! These three recipes are definitely going to go into The Amelie Day Book of Baking. I reckon I’ve got them down to a fine art.
I steady myself on the worktop. My head is damp with sweat and my chest feels terrible but it’s like I’m on another planet where nothing matters except the moment I’m in. I’m not even really aware of the other contestants, even though I can hear them slamming oven doors and clanking pans and hear the hiss of hot steam coming from all directions. The lights are so bright that I can’t see anybody anyway.
I need to take my chocolate fondants out. I don’t know whether the runny centre has worked but they’ve risen well and the deep dark chocolate smell makes my taste buds zing into action. I put them onto white plates and then I whisk vanilla and icing sugar into double cream to make the Chantilly crème to serve them with. I tip the cream into six tiny glasses to be put on each plate of chocolate fondant.
Then I add milk and cream into a saucepan for my vanilla custard and slice open a black vanilla pod with the tip of a sharp knife. My hands are shaking so much that I have to take care not to slice off my fingers. I scrape the seeds from the pod onto the tip of my knife and then slide them into the mixture, bring it to the boil and tip cornflour, eggs and sugar into another bowl. I mix them together, tip the milk mix into the bowl and whisk it all together before transferring it all back into the pan. Then I leave the whole thing to cook for fifteen minutes, stirring nearly all the time until it is thick enough to coat the back of my silver spoon with thick, sweet, yellow custard. While it’s bubbling I get my macaroons out and trim the rice paper so that it fits in a neat circle underneath each biscuit.
The Baking Life of Amelie Day Page 10
