A Bake Off in Cornwall Page 4

  "You don't measure things exactly," I pointed out, having watched him make the recipe a time or two. "You use dribs and drabs, and pinches of seasoning whenever you mix it up."

  "Trust me, in the beginning, it's better to do it precisely," he said. "You'll get the hang of it over time, and then it's less of a necessity." He opened an extract bottle from one of the cupboards, releasing a pleasant aroma into our kitchen. One of Matt's mum's 'secret ingredients' in her treacle pudding, he had told me once before.

  "This is really sticky," I said, my fingers tacking themselves to the jar. I licked one of them. "Bit strong, isn't it?" I said, worriedly. I had tasted molasses when I was a kid, and remembered it being less pungent.

  "This is extremely strong treacle," said Matt. "I bought it at a roadside stand in North Carolina when I took a weekend excursion along the southern coast. It's the sulfurous flavor you're noticing. 'Blackstrap sorghum molasses,' as they call it in the South. It's an acquired taste, but adds an interesting element in cooking."

  I tried not to make a face. "What's next?" I asked.

  "Honey," he said. "Just a spoonful or two." He lifted a jar of honeycomb from one of Rosemoor's kitchen corner nooks, near the percolator.

  "One of your mom's secret ingredients?" I asked. It wasn't anywhere on the recipe before us. In fact, we'd added several things that weren't mentioned on the pages of Harriet Hardy's Everyday Recipes of the British Kitchen.

  "It is indeed," said Matt.

  "How many times have you made this?" I asked, as I dutifully stirred in the honey. "Since you know it forwards and backwards, I mean."

  "Many times," said Matt, with a smile. "I made it more frequently when Michelle was still close to home. It brought to mind memories of childhood Christmases after only the two of us were left. It was a way to keep part of the past with us."

  "Does Michelle know the recipe, too?" I asked. I was nervous about surprising Matt's sister with a dessert that she, too, knew like the back of her hand. I crossed my fingers that I wasn't the only one ignorant around here about the secrets behind English puddings.

  "Not as well as I do," he said. "I was usually the one who helped my mother — Michelle was too young those first few Christmases. And when my mother worked, and our finances were limited, our Christmases tended to be rather small. Once, when I was nine or so, I found the cookbook in the cupboard and attempted it myself."

  "A dangerous task for a little boy, wasn't it?" I asked. I knew Matt had spent a lot of after school hours on his own while his mother worked. A 'latchkey' kid as the phrase says, without a baby-sitter for him and Michelle many an afternoon.

  "Imagine the secret horror of a nine year-old boy's mother when she finds out he's been using lots of electrical appliances and a gas oven while she was absent ... and you have an excellent picture of my mother's face when she first arrived home that evening," said Matt. "The finished product was a sticky mess, I fear, served once the lectures and tears were finished that night. Even so, when it was served, my mother pretended it was brilliant when she took a bite."

  I pictured a childhood version of Matt helping in the kitchen. Probably standing on a kitchen stool, pouring ingredients into the bowl as his mother stirred. I had only seen a couple of pictures of the patient, hardworking single mother who had done her best to raise Matthew and Michelle, and who hadn't lived to see how well their lives turned out. Matt had her eyes, I noticed. And there was a little of her in the shape of his cheekbones, too.

  "Now for the tin," he said. "It's in the top cupboard, behind the bread pans."

  The tin was old and battered, elegant-looking except for a dent in one side. It was Matt's mother's, one of the few things from his childhood that was still around, besides a handful of items tucked in shoeboxes. Somehow, he had saved this one, despite relocating his life multiple times on this side of the Pond and the other. I turned the tin over in my hands, examining it with reverent admiration.

  "Now, onto the cooking stage," said Matt. He kissed my cheek as he placed our newly-mixed pudding on the counter beside the stove.

  The pudding was more Matt's effort than mine, but we ate it as soon as it was decanted from its mold, with a brown sugar toffee sauce on the side that Matt made to sweeten its flavors for my sugar-coated American tongue. He cut two generous slices and put them on the chipped blue and gold china tea plates I had retrieved from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet.

  After his first bite of pudding, an odd look crossed Matt's face.

  "How much treacle did you add, Julianne?"

  "Just the amount it said in the recipe," I said. "I topped off the measurement of the cup you gave me." I held up the measuring cup, which was sitting in the heap of dishes to be washed.

  "That's not the measuring cup I gave you. I handed you two — one for the sugar, one for the treacle. Didn't you see the measuring cup I set in front of the book?"

  "What measurement?"

  Matt opened the cookbook again and pointed to the recipe, where the correct amounts were printed, partly obscured by a crusty bit of flour I had spilled earlier. I read it, feeling my cheeks flush at the substantial difference between the recipe's amount and the cup I had erroneously chosen. I had switched the measurements for the sugar and the treacle.

  "Oops," I said, cringing. "Sorry."

  "At least your sauce will come in handy," he chuckled, spooning a generous helping over his pudding before he took a second bite. "Maybe next time, we'll try sticky toffee pudding instead."

  ***

  The first day of The Grand Baking Extravaganza dawned with bright summer sunshine, the lush trees and jeweled greens of the garden herbs stirring in the coast's faint breeze off my beloved cliffs. The drapes were open in the ornate ballroom, where the program's camera crew setup had been old hat for all of us, thanks to Wendy Alistair's concert.

  All of the contestants were at their marks, all wearing matching aprons printed with the program's logo. Most of them were muttering recipes under their breath, or gripping a whisk or a spatula as if primed to go when the judges gave the word.

  Each of them had been given the basic ingredients, but had to supply the rest of what they needed. Their recipe was meant to be unique — their own special twist, not something unaltered out of a standard cookbook (like Harriet Hardy's British Cookery, for instance). And, of course, it must be a dainty selection perfect for serving at tea.

  From behind the set, I watched Dinah wait with hands folded for the official start. I crossed my fingers behind my back, and glanced towards Lord William, who had sneaked in also, and was watching with a serious look of anticipation. Lord William had a streak of baker's sympathy, too, I remembered — Lady Amanda spoke fondly of his lemon poppyseed bread which he sometimes made for their tea.

  "Each contestant at their place, please. When the bell sounds, you may begin," said Harriet Hardy. As a member of the production crew sounded a single chime, all the bakers sprang into action.

  "What did she choose?" Lord William whispered to me.

  "I have no idea," I whispered back.

  I hadn't seen Dinah since the day before the Extravaganza arrived at Cliffs House — only Geoff Weatherby had, and that was because he had dropped off Dinah's special spice blend which she had forgotten and left at the manor's kitchen. He had reported somewhat reluctantly to Gemma that Dinah's cottage kitchen seemed 'a bit of a mess' at the time. I got the impression that she hadn't been in the most cheery of moods, either.

  "Keep those fingers crossed," said Lord William.

  I watched as Leeman, the former star baker of Ceffylgwyn's village fete, stirred fresh raspberry juice and sugar together in a double boiler pot. It was certainly the main ingredient for his once-beloved jeweled raspberry tarts, which Gemma had spoken of reverentially.

  The bespectacled, goateed figure looked perfectly confident about his chances, as he rolled out a pastry tart with a little French rolling pin without handles. On the other hand, the young woman at the neighboring table h
ad already covered her apron and her hair with generous daubs of flour.

  I could definitely sympathize with her.

  At her station, Dinah was whisking cream and lemon juice over heat, which I recognized as the base to her lemon curd tarts. They were a delicious recipe, but not one of Dinah's most creative ones, which surprised me. Had she decided against her special orange saffron iced biscuits as too bold? Her basil-thyme scones served with fresh crab meat in rosemary cream as too different? A dozen snacks from the past came to my perplexed mind as I watched her strain the vanilla beans from her custard cream with a tiny sieve. Dinah playing it safe in the face of a cooking challenge — it couldn't be true.

  A contestant who looked no more than twelve years old was shaping puff pastry into little frog-shaped cakes, I noticed; meanwhile, a woman in a cotton sari was measuring a yellow-colored spice into a mixing bowl of dry ingredients, with miniature mountains of chopped fruit piled on the cutting board at her elbow.

  Dinah was cutting circles of pie crust and pressing them into tart tins. Her hands were shaking less than when she had begun, at least. She seemed sure of herself as she trimmed the edges with her worn-handled kitchen knife. My doubts about her choice of recipe erased themselves when she placed a new saucepan on the stove, and lifted a bowl of oranges onto the table beside it. Anything with Dinah's magic marmalade was sure to impress.

  All tea dainties must be finished by noon. There would be a coffee break before judging began, and I knew I still had to finish overseeing the reception room for when the crew and contest participants were finished. I slipped quietly from the ballroom, and made my way to the parlor, where Gemma was laying out stacks of white tea plates and the silverplate coffee service belonging to the manor's service wares.

  "Purchased bickies," she said, making a slight face as she laid out the pre-packaged shortbread rounds on a glass platter. "I loved 'em as a kid, but they're not as good as something from a proper kitchen."

  "We'll have to make do," I said. "These iced buns from Charlotte's shop will be worth sampling, at least." I had arranged for three dozen filled snack buns to be baked and delivered from the village fish and chips shop — its owner Charlotte made the best pasties in all Ceffylgwyn, and one taste of her homemade dessert buns at a Christmas party convinced me she was the right choice for entertaining the Baking Extravaganza crowd.

  The buns were iced in pink, white, and yellow — the baking contest's official colors. Gemma and I hastened to bring in the muffins and crocks of preserves; without saying anything we knew that we were both hurrying to see the finish of the first bake.

  "Done," I said, breathlessly. "All that's left is to serve the coffee and bring in two pots of tea."

  "Lady A will be pleased enough, although it would be better if we weren't short a cook and a hand in laying out service," said Gemma, stirring her gingery bangs from her eyes with a short puff of breath.

  A suitable full-time replacement for Pippa still hadn't been found, and no part-time schoolgirls were available today, it seemed. "I'll have Kitty come down to clear away," I promised. Gemma and I scurried from the sitting room, thankful no one but a production assistant saw us hurrying towards the ballroom doors left open a crack.

  "They're garnishing," whispered Gemma, peering through it.

  Then it was almost over. I felt a twinge of anxiousness. I could only see the shoulder of Dinah's blue blouse through the crack, then her fingers sprinkling something from a little dish. Gemma and I withdrew before the doors would open and release the contestants for their break.

  Dinah was shaking like a leaf. "I've never been so nervous in all my days," she said, accepting a cup of tea from me as the rest of the contestants and judges helped themselves to a treat. "I've never been in greater need of a cuppa, either." She took a long sip from it.

  "I'm sure you've done great," I said, reassuringly.

  "It's only a little bite of curd tart, I told myself! I've made a wedding cake for artistic royalty, and made scones for that posh footballer and his model wife," she continued. "But it didn't help none. I only hope I remembered the proper ingredients." She took a bite from one of the shop biscuits, and wrinkled her nose a little.

  "I know," I said. "Gemma bought them last minute. She was afraid we might run short." I was beginning to wonder if these were last holiday's biscuit tins only newly-discovered in the back of the shop.

  "See if Charlotte can do you some savory biscuits for tomorrow," she said. "Or some of her nice cold roast sandwiches on rolls that the American tourists like so much." She brushed the crumbs from her hands. "I feel quite bad that I'm not allowed to help out in between the challenges. If I could just make a bit of something —"

  "We don't want any accusations of cheating," I reminded her. I scanned the room, watching the contestants with their cups of coffee. "Who's your biggest challenge?" I asked.

  "Leeman's quite good," said Dinah, quietly. "But the girl in the flower print — name of Emily — she's sharp and precise. If her flavors are as steady as her hands, the rest of us are doomed to fall short."

  "We'll see," I said. "They haven't tasted anything yet." I glanced towards the two judges, Harriet Hardy's nose wrinkling as she discreetly disposed of one of the shop biscuits, and Pierre Dupine utterly charming a wide-eyed Gemma as she paused in the midst of refreshing the teapot.

  In the ballroom, platters of finished tea dainties awaited the judges. Plate after plate of perfect miniature cakes, scones, and biscuits, garnished with dried fruits or fresh herbs. Harriet Hardy and Pierre Dupine, each armed with a fork, began their verdicts.

  The little raspberry tart gleamed like ruby glass in the sunlight as Pierre cut through its surface. Leeman managed not to break into perspiration during the interminable silence that followed as the French judge closed his eyes and chewed his bite.

  "Piquant," he said, at last. "Very rich. How you say ... effervescent on the tongue, even." As the judge opened his eyes, Leeman beamed for the benefit of the camera behind the judges.

  Harriet Hardy tasted it now. "Too much gelatin, perhaps," she said. "It's very pretty...but it's a bit chewy, don't you agree?"

  Pierre made a face that, technically, didn't constitute agreement or disagreement in my book. Leeman looked a trifle less confident.

  "But I agree that the flavor is, nevertheless, very lovely," said Harriet, afterwards.

  "A fine dessert," declared Pierre, at last.

  The frog puff pastries from a boy named Gil were somewhat the worse for wear after baking, with overly-browned edges and not enough minty cream inside. And the savory lamb finger sandwiches by Imera in the blue sari produced a debate between Harriet and Pierre regarding too much turmeric. They tasted cranberry biscuits, lemon-lime spritz shortbreads, and glass candy walnut tarts — and, in line with Dinah's shrewd judgment, found flower print-clad Emily's white chocolate ganache and coconut spirals 'delightful' and 'heavenly.'

  Dinah's lemon curd tarts were topped with a layer of her signature marmalade, and a tiny sprinkle of candied citrus peel. She was doing her best not to wring the lap of her apron as Harriet Hardy's fork sliced through the pastry crust.

  "A very zesty lemon," she said. "The tartness of the marmalade balances it, however."

  "It is the spice that one notices, not the bitterness," contradicted Pierre. "It is perhaps too strong, the citrus and the cream, if not for that tiny bit of heat. We must credit a little cinnamon, perhaps."

  "Yes, perhaps, but one cannot have both sweet, and the spices are irrelevant without the true citrus neutralizing the sugared cream," said Harriet. "It's the tartness that carries this off. It's well done for that reason alone." She moved on to the next contestant. I could see Dinah breathe a deep sigh of relief as soon as the judges and cameraman were gone.

  After the last tasting, the judges withdrew to a separate table to compare notes before releasing each contestant's score. In first place, Emily Pierce. In second place, Leeman Lawson. And in third place, Dinah Barrington.
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  "I guess Jenny Bryce is disappointed," said Gemma, who was beaming as she applauded — but only after the ballroom door was safely closed again. "Her magic whisk had only landed her in tenth place."

  "I think it was the soggy pastry crust that was responsible," I said.

  Dinah had survived round one of the competition. If Matt's estimation of human psychology was correct, she stood an excellent chance in round two.

  ***

  Lady Amanda had arranged for the judges to have tea with the lord and lady of the manor — the principal staff was invited, excluding Dinah. As soon as the contest judging was at an end, Gemma and I donned aprons in the kitchen and helped Lady Amanda prepare cucumber sandwiches, buttered bread, mini crab-and-cream scones, and iced petits fours with raspberry filling.

  "Thank heavens Dinah had some of these tucked away in the freezer," said Lady Amanda, as she split open the herb-flecked scones. "Gemma, mind the soft spot on that cucumber," she cautioned, as she brushed aside crumbs from the serving platter using the hem of her apron — one printed with a cartoon baby wearing a chef's hat and the words 'future bun baker in the oven.' A joking little gift from Dinah, perhaps.

  "Did I get the cream dressing right for the crab?" I asked. "Quick, someone taste it —" I held a spoonful towards Lady Amanda, who waved it away.

  "Not now," she said. "Little yet-to-be-named has changed their mind about food. I might send back my lunch if I take a bite."

  Gemma stuck the spoon into her mouth. "A little more dill," she said. "And I think Dinah garnishes with rosemary. Do we have any fresh?"

  "A little," I said, hastening to add the lumps of flaky white crab to the salad's sauce. "If those cakes are fully thawed, there's some raspberry jam ready to pipe in the pastry bag by the icing."

  "Brilliant, Julianne," said Lady Amanda. "My attempts to fill piping bags are always too messy." With energy, she began filling the extra little yellow sponge cakes Dinah had saved after a recent charity luncheon.