“We just need to find someone to look in on her every day. Like a nurse or a caretaker. Gretchen says that’s what they did for her grandma.”
“But who’s going to pay for that? Can Mrs. Simpson afford it?”
“Well, she can pay some of it, I think. But I’ve thought of another way we might be able to help.”
I tell Mom my idea. She listens intently, her face lighting up.
“That’s sounds like a really interesting idea, Scarlett.” She pauses for a moment, her brain ticking into blogging mode. “I’ve got a few suggestions if you want to hear them…”
The Secret Cooking Club
November 15
I can’t believe the Secret Cooking Club Online has been up and running for a whole month already! Thanks so much to my 451 friends and followers—you are amazing! Please keep writing in and sending photos of the delicious things you are making. And don’t forget—when you leave free samples in your school cafeteria, leave a note with our web address.
Now for a few pieces of news:
First, the countdown to the online bake-a-thon has begun. Only seven days to go! Click below to sign up and enter.
Second, I’m happy to announce that my mom—yes, you heard that right—is helping us in our push for 1,000 followers. She’s going to link my blog to hers and publicize us on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. She thinks that together we can raise lots of money to help our neighbor, and raise awareness so that other senior citizens can get the care they need.
Third, we helped our newest member make the most AMAZING rainbow layer cake for his mom. She couldn’t BELIEVE he could bake something that good. So, go on, everybody, give it a try—you might enjoy it!
I can’t believe how much better things have gotten between Mom and me. I finally told her about the Secret Cooking Club, and also that I accidentally started a fire at our neighbor’s house. She was surprised—to say the least—especially about the blog. Things were a little tense again, but we got through it. And now it’s almost like we’re partners—which seems to work for both of us.
And you know what’s surprised me the most? Mom can actually cook! For my birthday she made me a two-tiered cake with purple icing, strawberries, and jelly beans on top—and it tasted really delicious. She and our neighbor sometimes spend hours in the kitchen, making real, healthy, home-cooked meals for me and my sister and my friends. And my friends and I do the same for her. We’re finally learning how to respect each other, and it feels good—really good. Maybe now that I’m fourteen, I’m finally growing up.
November 16
Guest Post by Shh…Mom’s the Word
I’ve never written a guest blog before on a fourteen-year-old’s website, and all credit to my daughter for trusting me to do so when I’ve done little to earn that trust over the last three years. I want to say to the “Little Cook” that I love you and am proud of you. But seriously… Help! My daughter’s bake-a-thon is turning my kitchen into a dumpster!
November, 17
Guest Post by the Little Cook on Shh…Mom’s the Word
You all know who I am—and way more about my life than I want. But now that I’ve found my own voice, and Mom and I have talked things through, I feel a lot better about myself and Mom. I don’t even mind her writing stuff (the good stuff, at least) about me—well, not too much anyway. But if you want the real story, check out my blog.
The best thing that has come out of all this is our neighbor—she’s become almost like an adopted grandmother. We’re trying really hard to raise money for people like her—elderly people living alone—so they can all have a few more home comforts. And if possible, we want to help these older people get together to share yummy food and treats and make new friends. Click here for more information on our online bake-a-thon.
If you think this is a great cause, click on the donation link below and show your support.
Oh, and stay tuned for the bake-a-thon. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a member of the Secret Cooking Club near you to make something delicious. We are dedicated to sharing happiness and friendship through baking. Even if you’re (gasp!) a grown-up, we’d still be pleased to have you as a member. Here’s that link again…
Chapter 39
The Bake-a-thon
Okay, so the blog is doing really well, and I’m enjoying “meeting” so many new people and connecting with them. But as much as the Secret Cooking Club Online is proving to be a success, the bake-a-thon is keeping me awake at night. We’re making tons and tons of food—not only for the school cafeteria, but for other schools, and for the hospital, and a few of the old people’s homes in the area, and for a couple of lunch clubs set up specially for older people. In other words, it’s a big job. The good thing is that it’s not just us—there are twelve people at our school who have joined up. I don’t know who they all are (because we have anonymous user names) but hardly a day goes by when there’s not something delicious left in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Every day, I get from three to ten new followers on the blog.
Mrs. Simpson is an interesting mix of grandmother, drill sergeant, and kind fairy godmother. The one thing she insists on is that the blog doesn’t get in the way of the main event—learning how to cook, and sharing what we cook, not just as pictures, but in real life with as many people as possible.
But not everything is going quite so well. For one thing, Mrs. Simpson is getting a lot of headaches, and sometimes she loses her balance and seems to forget things. And Mr. Kruffs is still in the picture, even though he seems to accept that Mrs. Simpson is not going anywhere—for the moment, at least.
As soon as he got back from his trip, he turned up and paid another visit to Mrs. Simpson. He came by her house and caught us with our hands in the cookie jar—or at least the cookie dough (Mrs. Simpson was helping us to make chocolate-covered gingerbread people). And right away, you could tell he wasn’t too impressed.
He launched into his usual tirade about how places at the “nice home” don’t come up very often, and wasn’t Mrs. Simpson tired of having to struggle through every day on her own? He also wasn’t very happy when I told him we hadn’t had time to look into getting a caregiver yet for his aunt. But then the really bad thing happened.
Mom must have heard the commotion through the wall of the Mom Cave, and she came over to add her opinion. She invited Mr. Kruffs to our house for a cup of coffee and a discussion about Mrs. Simpson’s future. And when I got home hours later and came into the kitchen, I couldn’t believe it—he was still there!
“Hello, Scarlett,” Mom said, giving me a quick hug. “Emory and I were having a nice little talk.”
“Oh?” I replied coolly. Emory? My eyes fixed on the half-empty bottle of red wine and the remains of a selection of nice cheeses that Mrs. Simpson had bought Mom from a local shop.
“Yes.” Mr. Kruffs stood stiffly. “Your mom is a very interesting person.”
“Yeah, she is.” I couldn’t believe it. Is the “new Mom” all some kind of sick joke? Is she suddenly in cahoots with Mrs. Simpson’s enemy?
“Oh, not really.” Mom blushed. “We were speaking about publicity, that’s all. Building a profile and all that. Which I know one or two things about.”
“I confess I’m not familiar with your mother’s blog,” Mr. Kruffs said. He smiled at her, looking almost boyish. “But she says she’ll forgive me.”
“Yes, of course.” She grinned back and their eyes locked together. Gross. “Especially since I’ve started taking it in a whole new direction. Right, Scarlett?”
“Yeah.”
Mom’s already started transitioning her blog from a nasty tell-all rant to an inspirational women’s blog. For the “Parenting” section, she’s had this new idea where she and I collaborate. It would be a “dialogue” (her word) between a mother and daughter with a view to resolving their differences. At first I laughed and suggested she’
d have to come up with a whole new kit for Superdrug—“Mothers and Daughters Together” or some junk like that. Unfortunately, she loved that idea. I guess I’ll try to keep an open mind.
“Anyway,” Mr. Kruffs said to Mom, “it’s been very nice to meet you, Claire. I’ll email you about that gallery opening I mentioned.”
Claire.
“Oh yes.” Mom’s face looked rosy and flushed. “Please do.”
OMG. All the blog stuff about “The Single Mom’s Guide to Dating” and the “way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” came rushing back.
Mom is going on a date with Mr. Kruffs!
“Excuse me,” I said in a choking voice. “I’ve got homework.”
“Night, Scarlett.” Mom kissed me on the cheek. I went upstairs to my room and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. At least they have stayed put while everything else is a whirlwind of change.
• • •
The day I’ve been both eagerly awaiting and secretly dreading finally arrives. The day of the online bake-a-thon. Thanks to all of Mom’s guest-blogging, tweeting, and other publicity, I’ve got over eight hundred followers on my social media sites, and just over a quarter of them have signed up for the bake-a-thon. The format is this: Everyone participating will bake something to take to their school, or the hospital, or an assisted-living home, or local lunch club for senior citizens, or just setting up a bake sale on the street somewhere. Everyone is getting sponsors and publicity from local businesses. People donate to an online charity fund to help the elderly.
Of course, all this is happening out in cyberspace and the world in general, so I have very little control over it. But so far, the donations have been coming in at a steady pace. I’ve had to set up a whole new site linked to my original blog account to accommodate all the photos that members have been sending in for each of our sections: “Yummy Cakes and Bakes,” “Healthy Bites at Home,” “Home-Cooked Dinners,” and “Recipes for Sharing.” And as for my own branch of the Secret Cooking Club—well, we’ve been cooking around the clock. Every spare fridge shelf, table, counter, container, and cupboard is filled with the things we’ve made. And in a last-minute “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” move, Mr. Kruffs called Mom and agreed to match whatever funds we raise from the bake-a-thon, in order to help pay for his aunt’s caretaker. So now I’m even more fired up to raise as much money as we can.
I’m up and dressed well before the time Gretchen’s mom is supposed to come with her car to get all the food from Mrs. Simpson’s house. It’s a crisp, bright autumn morning, and I can hear the birds singing in the backyard as I go next door to get things ready. I let myself into Mrs. Simpson’s house quietly, in case she’s still asleep upstairs. I’m surprised to find her sitting in her light-flooded kitchen, the doors to the backyard flung open. On the table in front of her is a steaming cup of tea and one of the fluffy croissants she helped us make. There’s also a piece of paper and a pen. As soon as I enter, she folds the paper and tucks it away.
“Scarlett,” she says, reaching out her wrinkled hand. I take it and she grips my fingers. “It’s a lovely day for your bake-a-thon.”
I look closely at her lined face. Her cheeks have more color in them than usual, and her eyes seem to sparkle, as clear and blue as the sky outside. She looks younger somehow. She’s wearing her nicest flowered dress and ivory, knitted cardigan, and her hair is smoothed back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
“You look nice, Mrs. Simpson,” I say. “Are you expecting company?”
“No, child.” She looks at me for a long moment. “Not exactly. But there’s magic in the air today. Do you feel it?”
I stand still for a moment—something I haven’t done for a while. I listen to the sound of a pigeon cooing from the roof, the wind rustling through the orange and gold leaves. I feel the warmth of the pale sun on my face. Maybe those things are magic, I don’t know. But I feel a little bit calmer and ready to face the day ahead.
“Yes, Mrs. Simpson.”
She smiles. “I’m so proud of you, Scarlett.”
“Thanks.” Her praise means the world to me. I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek.
Just then, the doorbell rings. I go to answer it—it’s Gretchen and Violet. “Hi!” I say, ushering them in. “Right on time.”
We go into the kitchen, but Mrs. Simpson is no longer there—I see her outside in the garden, leaning on her stick and looking up at the sky. She gives us a little wave as we empty the fridge and fill Gretchen’s mom’s car with overflowing baskets, pans, and boxes of food. Alison and Nick are helping to coordinate food pick ups from some of the new members at our school—Susan, Eloise, and Fraser—who have made even more stuff.
Gretchen’s mom drives us over to the places that we’ve prearranged—the hospital where we once took the oatmeal bars to Mrs. Simpson, two assisted-living homes, the city council headquarters, a branch of a local charity that runs lunches for senior citizens, and several local businesses that have agreed to support us. We’re left with a big batch of chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and cupcakes to take to school, and I have reason to believe that several more new members of the Secret Cooking Club (who we haven’t met yet) will be bringing things too.
We carry everything inside through the back door of the cafeteria—everyone at school pretty much now knows or suspects who’s a member of the Secret Cooking Club, and even if they don’t, the cafeteria workers are totally on board and helping us. They’ve even said that club members can use the school cooking facilities (closely supervised, of course).
So by the time all of us make it to our first class (late), it seems things are going well. I somehow manage to make it through the morning, and then it’s lunchtime.
As I leave the classroom, I can already hear the noise from down the hall in the cafeteria. Violet and I lock arms and go there together. As soon as I go through the door, I gasp. It’s like a cooking flash mob. The tables are covered with baked goods—either the Secret Cooking Club has far more members at school than I know about, or else the cafeteria workers decided to cook their own recipes and desserts. Everyone is standing around talking and laughing, waving trays, not bothering to line up in an orderly fashion. I’m happy to hear the clink of coins in the “pay what you want” collection box we set up.
Then someone throws open the door that leads to the schoolyard outside, and people begin drifting out for an impromptu autumn picnic. It’s against school rules to do so, but the teachers don’t try to stop us—they carry their plates full of food outside and sit on the benches and grass along with everyone else. Luckily, the day is still bright and sunny with a mostly blue sky and little puffy white clouds.
I grab a tray and work my way forward into the clump of kids in front of the dessert table (I’m way too on edge to tackle any real food). Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around. Instantly, the butterflies take flight in my stomach—the way they always do whenever I’m around Nick Farr.
“This is fantastic, Scarlett,” he says. His smile is amazing, his eyes shiny.
“Thanks,” I say, blushing. “Not that I had anything to do with it—but, I’m sure that the ‘Little Cook’ appreciates your help with the website.”
“No problem.” He laughs. “And I saw your mom’s new post today promoting the bake-a-thon. She really has turned over a new leaf.”
“Well…” I roll my eyes. “It’s early days.”
“Listen…” He leans in closer. “My brother and his wife got me two tickets to see One New Direction—you know, the tribute band? I was wondering…” His voice suddenly falters. “I mean, if you’re not too busy…”
“I’d love to go,” I practically gasp. “When is it?”
“The Sunday after next. I can email you the details.”
“That would be great.”
All of a sudden I’m in the middle of t
he crowd up at the food table. I feel Nick take my hand and squeeze it, and then we get separated. I look around for him, my hand tingling, but he’s gone.
I let the full implications of what just happened wash over me like a warm bath. Nick Farr asked me out to a concert. Nick Farr likes me!
The whole world feels as though it’s in slow motion around me. I grab a samosa, a fruit tart, and a chocolate brownie, unaware of all the noise and the people pushing past me. I still feel like I’m flying as I take my plate outside and find Violet, Alison, and Gretchen sitting in a circle on a blanket on the grass. The others reach out their hands, and we all slap high-fives. I sit and take a bite of the fruit tart Alison made—her specialty dish.
“Mmm. Delicious.” I close my eyes to savor the taste.
When I open my eyes again, the sky is suddenly dark as a cloud passes over the sun. A few people look up and hold out their hands as the first raindrops start to fall.
Chapter 40
The Secret Ingredient
By the end of the day, I’m exhausted but happy. I managed to sneak out of class for a bathroom break at one point and checked our site on my phone to see how the online bake-a-thon was doing. Hundreds of photographs had been uploaded, and nearly two dozen recipes. Best of all, we’d raised almost $3,000 so far for a charity that helps elderly people, and that’s well before all the pledges have been collected.
After school, I log on to the blog and officially declare the bake-a-thon a success. I can’t wait to get back home and tell Mom and Mrs. Simpson. Violet stays to help me collect our dishes and baskets. Gretchen and the others go off to collect the dishes we left at other locations. But when Violet and I come out of the school building, I’m surprised to see Mom waiting in her car. We hadn’t arranged for her to pick us up. Even though she’s now a “whole new mom,” she wouldn’t have just randomly decided to come and get us. She leans out the window to call to me, and it’s then I notice that her cheeks are streaked with tears.
Secrets and Scones Page 16
