by Coco Simon
“Sure, we’ll help you,” I said. “That’s a really nice idea.”
Jeff relaxed, smiled, and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Katie. This means a lot to me. I know how special your mom is to you. And I hope you know how special both of you are to me, too.”
I felt my eyes fill with tears then, and the last thing I wanted to do was cry. I had been doing enough of that lately.
“Come on! Let’s tell everyone,” I said, and we went back into the dining room.
My friends had been talking, but they stopped as soon as we walked in. I looked at Jeff.
“So, I am going to ask Katie’s mom to marry me,” he said. “And I would like to present the ring to her on a special cupcake. Like a proposal cupcake. And I thought you would be able to help me with that.”
“I knew it!” cried Alexis.
“Ooh, a wedding!” Emma said, her blue eyes shining. “Katie, your mom has to come to The Special Day bridal shop for her dress. I know Mona has the perfect one for her.”
“And I could design your bridesmaid’s dress!” added Mia. “You’re going to be a bridesmaid, right?”
“Hey, Jeff hasn’t even proposed to her yet,” I said, laughing. “She might say no.”
“Not a chance,” Alexis retorted.
“Well, you’d better design a spectacular cupcake for me, to make sure,” said Jeff.
“This is so on trend,” said Alexis. She whipped out her phone. “Wait, I bookmarked a whole Pinterest page of proposal cupcakes. There are so many awesome things we can do.”
“I think we need a classic flavor,” said Emma. “We don’t want the cupcake to take away from the proposal.”
“I’m thinking lots of tiny fondant flowers,” Mia said with a dreamy look in her eyes.
Alexis turned to Jeff. “Before we start brainstorming, we need to get your order filled out. When do you want this done?”
Everyone starting chatting at once, excited, but my mind was spinning with noncupcake thoughts. I was happy for Mom. I thought I would be okay with having Jeff for a stepdad, but I wasn’t completely sure. Here I was, about to get a stepdad, and I didn’t even know my real dad.
That’s when I knew for sure that I was going to take the internship. It was time for me to find out who Marc Donald Brown really was—and if he really was ready to be my dad.
CHAPTER 8
I’m an Intern!
It was pretty cool that Jeff brought in the Cupcake Club and me on his surprise proposal to my mom. But that meant I had to keep the surprise a secret from her! It wasn’t easy. I was glad I had the internship thing to distract me.
When I got back home from the Cupcake Club meeting, I had told Mom that I was going to accept Marc Donald Brown’s offer. She said I could e-mail him, so I did, and he got right back to me.
That’s great, Katie! I know I said you could work Saturday mornings, but I know there’s no school this Friday. Would you like to come in on Friday morning? That’s when Melissa comes in to prepare the desserts in advance.
At first I wondered how he knew about the school schedule, but then I remembered that his daughters went to school in the next town. That would explain it. Everybody in New Jersey had Friday off so the teachers could all go to some convention. I didn’t have any plans.
I typed back.
I can do Friday. What time?
He must have been online because he replied straightaway.
How does 8–12 sound?
I responded just as quickly.
I’ll ask Mom.
Mom said okay, and Marc Donald Brown and I e-mailed back and forth about how it was going to work. I had to wear comfortable shoes with nonslip soles, and Mom took me out and bought me a pair of these canvas clogs with thick rubber bottoms that she knew about because her dental assistants wear them. And Marc Donald Brown said it was okay to wear jeans and told me to pull back my hair.
By Thursday night I was a nervous wreck. I had spent the whole week (1) trying not to accidentally mention to Mom that I knew Jeff was going to propose and (2) worrying about what my first day as a pastry chef intern would be like in Marc Donald Brown’s restaurant.
I carefully set out my outfit for the next day: my new shoes (which I had been wearing every night to break them in), my best pair of jeans (no rips or pen drawings), and a plain black T-shirt (because I remembered that everyone who worked in the restaurant wore black). I set my alarm for six a.m. because I wanted plenty of time to get ready.
The alarm rang as scheduled on Friday morning, and I hit snooze twice (because I am still me, after all), but I had time to wash up. Mom and I left the house at seven thirty and got to the restaurant by seven forty-five.
“Oh no! We’re early!” I said as we pulled into a space in front of Chez Donald.
“That’s good,” Mom said. “It’s your first day of work. It shows that you’re responsible.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding. That made sense. Good to know, I thought.
Mom walked inside with me. The restaurant looked just like it did the time that Mia and I had tried to eat lunch there. It was a wide, bright space with shiny dark wood floors. The walls were pale yellow on top, with dark wood on the bottom half. The tables were set with crisp white tablecloths and gleaming glasses.
Marc Donald Brown was standing at the hostess’s stand, going through a pile of receipts. He looked up and smiled when we came in.
“Good morning,” he said. “Katie, I’m so glad you’re doing this.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Mom handed him her business card. “This is my work number, in case you don’t have it handy. I’ll be at the office this morning, but I will be here at noon to pick her up.”
“Great, great,” MDB said, running a hand through his hair. “You should meet Melissa before you go, Sharon. Follow me.”
He led us into the restaurant’s kitchen, and I couldn’t help feeling excited. Restaurant kitchens have always seemed like special places to me—it’s where the magic happens, and customers can’t go there normally. The Chez Donald kitchen was absolutely spotless. A bank of cooktops lined one wall, and in the center of the room were two rows of shiny stainless-steel workstations. Tucked underneath the stations were all kinds of pots, pans, and mixing bowls. I started to feel excited. I wanted to cook with every one of them!
There were a few workers in white shirts and pants, busy chopping vegetables. MDB led us through the kitchen to a plump woman slicing apples. She wore a black chef’s coat, and her brown hair was pulled back into a bun.
“Melissa, this is my daughter Katie I was telling you about,” Marc Donald Brown said.
Melissa put down her knife. “Katie, the intern? I don’t think you told me she was your daughter. But I thought your girls were all little?”
The awkwardness had begun! I looked at Mom, who was biting her lower lip.
“Katie is my daughter from Sharon, my first wife,” he said, pointing to Mom. “Katie lives in Maple Grove, and she’s already a great baker.”
A light went on in Melissa’s blue eyes. “Oh right, Katie! Nice to meet you!” she said. She came out from behind the table and pumped my hand. Then she shook Mom’s hand.
“Don has said many nice things about you, and Katie is eager to learn,” Mom said.
“Great!” Melissa said. “I can definitely use an extra pair of hands.”
Mom looked at me. “I’ll see you soon, Katie. You’ll do great.” Then she hugged me.
“Thanks,” I said, and she said good-bye to MDB and Melissa and then walked out of the kitchen.
Marc Donald Brown ran his hand through his hair again. “Well, I’ve got to go do some orders, so I’ll let you two get at it,” he said, and then he ambled away.
Melissa went over to a wall and pulled off a black apron.
“You can wear this,” she said. “We’re going to get our hands dirty this morning.”
“Great!” I said. That’s one thing I liked about baking—cracking eggs, getting my hands in do
ugh, stuff like that. It’s like playing, but you get something delicious to eat when you’re done.
“I’ll start by showing you around,” Melissa said, and she pointed to her workstation. “This is the pastry station. I do all my prep here. In the morning, I make all the desserts, and I’m here through the lunch shift. At night there’s a sous chef who plates the desserts and does any finishing touches, like adding whipped cream or heating things up.”
I nodded. “I read Sonya Beck’s memoir about being a pastry chef, and that’s how she explained it too,” I said.
Melissa raised an eyebrow. “Wow, did you read that after you got the internship?”
“No, I read that last year for fun,” I replied.
She grinned. “A girl after my own heart,” she said. “Okay, let me show you the walk-in.”
She led me to a large, walk-in refrigerator. It was lined with shelves loaded with vegetables, fruit, meat, and more, and everything was labeled and dated.
“This is where the cold stuff is,” she said. “So if I ask you to grab me butter or milk or strawberries, you’ll find them in here.”
She grabbed a large plastic container labeled BLACKBERRY COMPOTE and then led me out of the walk-in and into the room next door.
“Here’s the pantry,” she said.
Once again, my eyes went wide. Mom and I had a tiny pantry off the kitchen, but it was nothing like this. The pantry, too, held rows of steel shelves, filled with neatly labeled ingredients. There were bags of beans and grains, bins of flour and sugar, and what looked like hundreds of spices.
“You could get lost in here,” I said.
Melissa laughed. “And you just might,” she said. She pointed to one shelf. “My baking stuff is all in one area, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
After that she led me to a sink. “Wash your hands and then put on a pair of gloves from that box,” she said. “I need you to fill some tart shells for me.”
I did as instructed, and Melissa put the container of compote on her station. She disappeared into the pantry and came back with a large metal tray of small tart shells.
“We had some amazing blackberries come in yesterday, so I immediately thought of tarts,” she said. “I’m leaning toward a tart trio—a mini blackberry tart, an apple tart, and maybe a chocolate tart.”
Just hearing the description made me want to drool.
“I baked some tart shells this morning,” she said. “If you can fill each tart with the blackberry compote, that would be great. There are two more trays in the pantry, so keep going when you finish this one. I’m going to work on the apple tarts.”
“How much compote should I put in each tart?” I asked her.
She opened the container and picked up a small scoop—almost like an ice-cream scoop but smaller. I had one like it at home that I used to scoop out cookie dough. It helped you get evenly sized portions.
“Just before the tippy-top,” she said, demonstrating for me. “Leave a little bit of room at the rim. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said, and then I got to work. I started off slowly, because I didn’t want to mess them up. The tart shells were kind of delicate, and I kept worrying that I would crush one every time I picked one up.
I got through the first eight okay. Then when I did the ninth one, some of the compote spilled onto the side of the tart.
“Um, Melissa?” I asked.
Melissa looked up from her apples. “What’s up?”
“I spilled some of the blackberry onto the side of the tart with this one,” I told her. I could feel my face getting hot. What a rookie mistake!
“No biggie,” she said. She picked it up and used a clean cloth to wipe away the stray blackberry filling. “See? Good as new. And if it wasn’t . . .”
She popped the tart into her mouth. “Just eat the evidence.”
I laughed, relieved that Melissa wasn’t angry or upset or anything. Then I got back to work.
Soon, I fell into a rhythm. I had a lot of tarts to fill. I must have been really focused because when I had finished, I saw Melissa was rolling out some dough. I hadn’t even seen her make it!
“I think I’m done,” I announced.
Melissa walked over to me. “Nice job.” Then she frowned. “But these are kinda plain. And they could be prettier. Have you ever made a simple syrup before?”
I nodded. “We learned at my summer cooking camp. Equal parts water and sugar, simmered together.”
“So, can you make me a cup? I’m thinking some candied almond slices would be nice. And maybe some tiny sprigs of mint,” she said.
“Blackberry and mint are awesome together,” I told her. “I made a sorbet like that once.”
Melissa grinned. “I’d better watch out, or you’ll be taking my job,” she said, and I blushed. “Now, go make that syrup for me.”
I stared at the kitchen for a minute, suddenly nervous again. I wasn’t just filling tarts—I was cooking! Sure, I mean, it was only simple syrup, but still.
Think, Katie, think, I told myself. You need a measuring cup for liquids, and a measuring cup for dry ingredients, and a small saucepan to make the syrup. . . .
Melissa was humming to herself as she cut her dough into little circles. She must have had a lot of faith in me, I guessed, because she didn’t seem worried that I would mess things up. I didn’t want to let her down.
First, I went to the pantry to get the sugar. I was coming back out when I bumped into Marc Donald Brown.
“Oh, hey, Katie,” he said. “Is Melissa keeping you busy?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “We’re, um, making tarts.”
“No cupcakes?” MDB asked me.
“Well, I guess they’re not on the menu,” I said. “So, um, I should get to the stove.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, and then he hurried off.
I found what I needed, and pretty soon, I had the syrup gently simmering on the stove. It didn’t take long to make. Just as I took the syrup off the heat, Melissa came by with a measuring cup full of almonds and dumped it into the saucepan.
“Now, give them a good stir,” she said. “And spread them out on that baking sheet over there.”
The baking sheet was covered with a mat made of silicone—I had one of those at home, too. It was nonstick, and besides baking, it was good for when you were making sticky stuff, like peanut brittle.
While the almonds cooled, Melissa had me wash and dry a bunch of mint and then pick off the leaves. It was kind of painstaking, but Melissa started talking to me while we worked.
“So, what did your dad say back there about cupcakes?” she asked.
“My friends and I own a cupcake business, the Cupcake Club,” I replied.
Melissa’s eyebrows rose. “The Cupcake Club? That’s you? I had one of your cupcakes at a bridal shower this summer. Pineapple coconut. It was awesome.”
“Thanks!” I said. “Usually, I come up with the flavors, but that one was my friend Mia’s idea. The mother of the bride had a whole tropical theme going.”
“So what’s your next gig?” she asked.
I decided not to tell her about the proposal cupcake—that would be complicated.
“We’re baking cupcakes for this magazine launch,” I answered. “They want us to do a cupcake that follows the latest trends. My friend Alexis researched it and says it’s vegetables in cupcakes. It sounds interesting, but I’m not so sure.”
Melissa looked thoughtful. “Well, the obvious would be, like, a sweet potato cupcake with brown sugar frosting. But if you wanted to be really adventurous, you could do a zucchini cupcake or something like that. With avocado buttercream.”
I made a face. “Avocado buttercream?”
Melissa nodded. “It’s a vegan thing, I guess. But there are a lot of recipes out there. It’s surprisingly good.”
I was having a tough time imagining what an avocado frosting would taste like, but I was definitely intrigued.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s wor
th trying out. We do test baking sessions all the time.”
“You sound so professional,” Melissa said. “Your dad must be really proud of you.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t exactly know me very well.” The words just kind of came out by themselves. I barely knew Melissa. Why was I telling her this?
Thankfully, Melissa was cool about it. She just nodded, and then she changed the subject.
“Okay, let’s start dressing these babies,” she said.
We worked together at first, topping each mini tart with two slivers of candied almond and one mint leaf. Then, when I got the hang of it, Melissa went back to finish her apple tarts. She also had an ice cream going, and a chocolate cake in the oven. I don’t know how she got it all done so fast!
When the tarts were done, I stared at the trays with rows and rows of perfect little treats. It was a good feeling—the same feeling I get when I look at rows of perfect cupcakes. But this time I was baking in a professional kitchen!
After that, Melissa had me help out with a bunch of different stuff. I was grating some dark chocolate when Marc Donald Brown walked back in.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Great!” Melissa said. “She’s a real winner, Don.”
“Glad to hear that,” he said. Then he turned to me. “Katie, your mom will be here in about five minutes. I’ll walk you outside.”
“Already?” I asked. I couldn’t believe that the whole morning had passed so quickly.
“Before you take her from me, I need to let her taste one of the tarts she helped me with,” Melissa said. She picked up a mini tart and handed it to me. “What do you think?”
The crust was buttery, the blackberries were sweet, the almond slivers were crunchy, and the mint brightened it all up.
“Delicious,” I said after I had finished. “Thanks, Melissa.”
“See you soon, Katie!” she said.
Then I walked outside the restaurant with MDB.
“I’m glad you had a good morning, Katie,” he told me.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for giving me the internship. I really like it so far.”
Marc Donald Brown smiled. “So, I’d really like for you to meet your sisters soon,” he said. “What do you think?”
