Wedding Girl

by Stacey Ballis

  “I don’t disagree; you are absolutely entitled to all the elegance and sophistication you want, but then again, I return to not inviting a couple hundred juvenile delinquents and low-level criminals to the event.”

  “You’re the worst kind of snob, Sophie Bernstein; if you didn’t have my nose, I’d wonder if there was a mix-up at the hospital.” And then, she hangs up.

  She hung up on me. On purpose. Holy shit. I’m so stunned I don’t know what to do. I just sit staring at the phone. Then it rings, and the caller ID is my parents’ house. I pick it up, expecting to hear my mom apologizing, but instead it is my dad, hissing into the phone.

  “What did you say to your mother? She’s throwing books into boxes over here with a force that makes a tsunami look tame.”

  “I just suggested that perhaps a smaller event at a less expensive venue might be a good idea for the wedding, and that inviting all of your combined current clients might not be the best idea, and she questioned my parentage.”

  My dad sighs deeply. “Sophie, what do I do? She’s going nuts. She has lists upon lists all over the house; she’s met with a dozen different photographers, none of whom are good enough. I came home the other day and heard her yelling on the phone to someone about letterpress invitations. I hate to say it, but it’s like her mother’s ghost is doing a demonic possession.”

  “Did you tell her you don’t want any of this? Ask her to reconsider?”

  “Of course not! I’m not insane, Sunshine. I don’t want her to stab me in my sleep.”

  I giggle. “Dad, you have to be honest with her.” I hear some slamming sounds in the background. “But maybe tomorrow?”

  “I love you, kiddo. But if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow night, send in the National Guard.”

  “Will do. Tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry and I’d love to have lunch or something with her this week to talk face-to-face about the wedding stuff.”

  “Okay, honey. How’s Bubbles?”

  “You know your mother; she’s out on the town for the third night this week. I think at Theater on the Lake this time.”

  “She always was the social butterfly; it makes me happy she hasn’t had to give up that part of her life. So she’s doing okay?”

  “She’s great, Dad; she’s doing great.”

  “It means the world to all of us that you are there with her, you know, but don’t feel like it has to be forever. You’re doing really well, and when you’re ready to be back in your own place, don’t worry about leaving her. We’ll have it all taken care of, and your little nest egg will be ready for you.”

  “Thanks, Dad, but for now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  “Okay, good.” More slamming noises. “I have to go.”

  “Don’t poke the bear.”

  “I won’t. Love you.”

  My poor dad. I can’t imagine what is going on with my mom, and I wish Bubbles were here to talk it through with me. Plus it is a little embarrassing that her social life is so much better than mine. Ruth is out of town for some sort of conference; Jean is on lockdown with her new show and has been avoiding contact since breaking up with Hanna upon their return from Connecticut. Apparently, after the birthday party, Jean tried to go with the flow, but on their trip Hanna pouted more and more every day, and then confessed on the plane ride home that she had thought the trip was for getting engaged, and when no ring appeared, it made her angry. Jean, thank goodness, could smell the crazy, and said she thought they were moving fast even for lesbians and should take a little break. Then she changed her locks. I tried to get her to come over tonight, but she is working on drawings for a design presentation next week. Amelia and Brian are on their honeymoon in Southeast Asia, and Bubbles is either moonlighting as a stripper or definitely has a gentleman caller, because she is out and about every other night, getting home later and later. But she still chats openly with my grandfather’s spirit, so I’m not going to quiz her on it. When she is ready, if ever, she will tell me who is squiring her about town. After all, who would I be to judge about keeping a secret or two?

  I make myself dinner and watch the Kings of Pastry documentary on Netflix, figuring I had better start boning up on some of my competition knowledge if Herman and I are actually going to not make idiots of ourselves.

  After the movie, feeling even more certain of our embarrassment than before, I head upstairs to answer some Wedding Girl emails, and there is a note from Jake.

  Sunny—

  Cheerio and tiddly pip! I’m here in the land of rain and chill, and have just eaten my fifth dinner in a row with roasted meats and Yorkshire pudding. I believe these people think gravy is a beverage. I’ve settled in a bit to work, and while there is quite the mountain to climb over here, I can see the path pretty clearly, so I’m tentatively optimistic that I’ll be able to do what my company needs me to within the three month time frame. I’m not sure my liver will last that long, and I may be about to set a land-speed record for fastest cholesterol jump, but what can one do?

  How are things over there in the colonies? I’m dying for news.

  Jake

  Jake—

  You’re certainly up early, is it the jet lag, or are you a morning person? Glad things are off to a good start. Here’s the best story I can think to share . . .

  I write the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the surprise party debacle, which is a story that just gets better the more you tell it, and then tell him about the subsequent breakup.

  Sunny—

  Jet lag for sure, I’m not much of a morning person as a rule. And I’m assuming you aren’t either?

  That is the funniest, scariest surprise party I ever heard of. Thank god your friend broke up with the crazy lady. Did she do it on the plane?

  Jake

  Jake—

  Nope. In the cab on the way back from the airport. And no, not a morning person.

  Sunny

  S—

  Oh, that is fantastic! You have to promise to tell me the unabridged version of that story when I’m back. I bet you are leaving out tons of juicy details.

  J

  I have to say that it does make me feel a bit warm and fuzzy for him to mention our future date so offhand.

  J—

  Yes, well, we shall see if you are worthy of such a wonderful story. You might have to earn it a bit.

  S

  This is about the most blatant flirting I’ve done, and I hope it lands okay.

  S—

  Duly noted. How’s your uncle doing at the store, things okay there?

  J

  J—

  He’s good, thanks for asking. Things have been picking up a little bit, some of our efforts seem to be bearing fruit, I don’t know if we can save it, but we’re giving it the old college try.

  S

  S—

  Good for you! That’s the spirit. Anything fun in the world of wedding advice?

  J

  J—

  Nope just the usual stuff, family disasters, too many people RSVPing yes, stretching budgets, why are flowers so expensive, the basics.

  S

  S—

  So I’m still your best and favorite client.

  J

  I laugh.

  J—

  Well, so far. But it’s early yet.

  S

  S—

  Ouch. Well on that note, I have to get ready to go to work, and by my clock you should be off to sleep soon. Goodnight.

  J

  J—

  And good morning Have a good day at work and try to eat some vegetables!

  S

  I hear the door downstairs unlock and look over at the clock. It is after eleven. I head downstairs and catch Bubbles attaching Snatch’s leash.

  “Hello, dear. I hope I didn’
t wake you.”

  “Of course not. You taking the dog out?”

  “Just a quick walkies; it’s a beautiful night.”

  “Want me to join you?”

  “I’d love it.”

  I slip into my work clogs, which are by the door, and grab my keys. We head out and the night is indeed beautiful—warm but not humid, and with enough of a breeze to keep things moving. We walk down the block, letting the dog snuffle his way and stop to pee on every tree.

  “How was your evening?” I ask, trying to be conversational but not prying.

  “Lovely; thank you for asking. How was yours?”

  “Eventful.” I fill her in on my parents.

  She laughs. “Give your mother a break. Can you imagine the upheaval? In one fell swoop she is giving up the home she’s been in for over four decades, trying to figure out how to make a new place feel like home and function for her future, and planning a wedding that she never ever expected to be planning. And all of this while you are still seeking your own balance.”

  “What do I have to do with it?”

  “Sweet girl. A parent is only as happy as their unhappiest child. And I don’t mean to imply that you are unhappy; you seem to be heading in a very good direction. But your whole life exploded, and that is hard for all of us who love you to watch. You’ve given up on your old dreams without really appearing to be pursuing new ones. So while your mother knows you aren’t miserable, you aren’t really quite happy yet, and until you are, she can’t be. I think she thought the wedding would be something you could do together, but she doesn’t know how to relate to you on those things. So on the one hand, she wants to do the kind of event you will be proud of, the kind you would want for her, but she also feels like a lot of her decisions lately go sort of against her personal politics, so she’s battling with herself. Imagine, all these years of their 1960s sensibilities, the choices they’ve always made, and suddenly they’re overnight millionaires and getting married to boot? And what is worse, they like it; they like the nice things, and the financial security, and I think they even like the conventional parts of it. And that must be very scary for your poor mom to swallow, to face about herself. Plus, I don’t need to tell you, she’s at a complicated and difficult age, hormonally speaking, which I’m sure is exacerbating the whole megillah.”

  I hadn’t thought of any of this. “Aren’t you the insightful one? So how do I handle it?”

  “Be kind, have a sense of humor, and at the end of the day, use all of these plans as a way to let her in. Share with her where you are in your life; confess some of your fears. Let her go into mommy mode a bit.”

  I reach over and link my arm through hers. “You are very wise, my bubbly Bubbles. Thank you.”

  “That’s what grandmothers are for. That and good snacks. Speaking of which, what do we have in the kitchen? I confess to being somewhat peckish. This night air does it.”

  “Hmm. Carbonara?” There is nothing more soul satisfying at the end of a long night than a pan of creamy, salty, bacony pasta.

  “Just the thing. Oh, Snatch.” She looks down at the dog, who is happily rolling in a patch of dirt. He gets up, shakes his girth, and dust flies everywhere, making him sneeze four times in quick succession.

  “He’s quite the dog, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t knock it; every girl should have a dog. It’s good for us.”

  “Yeah, well, I always wanted one, but with my career? Not good for having pets.”

  “Oh, honey. That is an enormous load of bullshit. Your career—whatever it was, is, or will be—will have room for a man, children, dogs, whatever you choose. And if you claim otherwise, you are lying to yourself.”

  “Careful, old woman. If you get too sassy, I’m going to put extra black pepper in the carbonara.” Bubbles is not a fan of black pepper, and I use it very judiciously where she is concerned.

  “I surrender,” she says as we climb the stoop.

  And the three of us head towards the kitchen, where everything is easily controlled.

  Without Love

  (1945)

  You never want love in your life again, and I never want it in mine. But our reasons are as different as the sun is from the moon. You don’t want it because you’ve had all the worst of it. I don’t want it because I’ve had all the best.

  • KATHARINE HEPBURN AS JAMIE ROWAN •

  I reread the sheet for the eleventh time, while eating cold leftover lasagna for breakfast.

  2016 CHICAGO CAKE COMPETITION INFORMATION

  Cakes are to reach a minimum of four feet in height with a minimum of three tiers. Internal dowels are allowed for tiers, but cakes should be a minimum of 95% edible. These cakes will be served to the crowds post-judging.

  Cakes should have a strong Chicago theme visually.

  Cakes must have a minimum of three different flavor profiles represented, one of which must be chocolate. At least one tier must incorporate a dacquoise component. Decoration can incorporate fondant, gum paste, chocolate, and sugar work, all decoration must be edible. There are no specific requirements regarding the use of these techniques, but the scorecards add points for number of techniques executed well.

  Judging criteria are as follows, a full sheet of judging points to be earned is attached.

  Taste: 50%

  Chicago Theme and Visual Impact: 20%

  Execution: 15%

  Technique: 15%

  Judges will be judging the actual display cakes; you will not be able to make smaller versions for the taste category. We are looking to promote your large-scale event cake work, so it is that cake that will be tasted.

  Cake layers, dacquoise layers, fillings, buttercream, and pre-colored base fondant may be prepared ahead of time and delivered to the venue. All assembly and decoration work must happen on site, including the modeling of any figures, all sugar and chocolate work, and fondant rolling. A list of equipment that each team will have at their disposal is attached, if there is other specialty equipment you require, it must get pre-approved by the committee. You will have six hours to assemble and decorate your cake, during which time you will also have press and photographers coming by, as well as members of the public. These people will know that they are not to speak to you or ask questions.

  Judges will also be coming around, and they do have leeway to ask questions, taste components, and observe your working style.

  Your team can consist of one lead baker and one assistant. You are allowed to take two 30-minute breaks for meals and rest; your team members can decide if they want to take their breaks together or separately.

  If you have any questions that are not answered here, or in the attachments, don’t hesitate to reach out to us! We’ll be in touch closer to the competition date to arrange for delivery of prep items and other details.

  It’s not as bad as it could have been. Clearly they have learned that the public doesn’t want to watch people mix batter and wait for cakes to cool, so the amount of prep that can be done ahead is really fantastic and allows for great quality control. That just means that the focus the day of is all about assembly and decoration, which is the fussiest work. I’m not worried about our flavors; I know we can knock the delicious part out of the park. But we have to figure out a great theme and execute well. I’m really worried about Herman and his endurance for such a physically demanding day. I don’t see us doing much sugar work—too time-consuming and complicated—but I do think we can do some interesting things with chocolate and fondant and gum paste, once we have the right design.

  The design will be everything, and I haven’t the foggiest clue what we should do. I need to knead something. Bread work, the act of bringing together the dough under my hands, is like meditation for me. I think about what ingredients I have in the house; I don’t want to have to go out and get anything. I’ve been unsuccessfully trying so hard to find t
hat one amazing thing for the bakery, but I’ve hit a wall. I’ve given up on finding the next hot hybrid; the world doesn’t need more cruffins or sconssants or any other Frankenpastry. The world needs something simple, comforting, versatile, and addictive. The kind of thing that never goes stale, because it never lasts long enough. The kind of thing that you buy two of, because you’ll eat half of the first one in the car on the way home.

  And then it hits me like a bolt.

  Milk bread.

  Dexter and I went to Charlotte a couple of years ago for their Wine & Food Weekend. Turned out to be our last trip together. But it was a good one. We snuck off to eat dinner at a brand-new place in Davidson called Kindred. As soon as we sat at the table, they brought over an enameled metal bowl, which had four huge rolls baked into it, golden brown and glistening, sprinkled with large shards of crunchy salt. It turned out to be milk bread, a simple yeast bread of Japanese origin, which has a tender and elastic crumb, a soft crust, and a slightly sweet flavor. We demolished the whole thing in minutes. After our dinner, we introduced ourselves to the team, and I got chatting with the pastry chef, bonding the way we do. We traded info; doing the usual dance about reaching out if either of us were in the other’s city, yadda yadda. We haven’t stayed in touch.

  I grab my phone and check my contacts. There she is, Stephanie Detweiler, pastry chef at Kindred. I hit Dial.

  “Hello, this is Stephanie.”

  “Stephanie, not sure if you remember me. This is Sophie Bernstein; we met last year. I used to be at Salé et Sucré in Chicago.”

  “Jesus, Sophie, of course I remember you. You poor thing. I totally wanted to reach out after that whole thing; it was just so shitty what happened. But . . . you know.”

  “That is very sweet of you. Ancient history and a large bullet dodged.”