A Bake Off in Cornwall Read online

  "I've got things covered here," I supplied. Which wasn't even remotely true, of course — but that was beside the point.

  A long pause of debate lapsed. "I guess," said Kitty, at its end. "I've never been there, so seeing it might be worth the ride."

  "Great," said Nathan. "I'll see you then. I'll text you about the when and where."

  I was careful not to say anything as Kitty and I went back to moving tables. Somehow, I had a feeling this would be the wrong moment to make any sort of remark about this decision. And something in Kitty's face and body language made me fairly certain she was doing her best to be totally indifferent about having said 'yes,' even though she would never admit it.

  Then again, I was pretty sure Nathan's nonchalance about her accepting the ticket was fake, too. But who was I to make that claim? If I were, then I would have known that the doors to the dining room were about to open and admit twelve very nervous contestants.

  "Most of you are quite aware of the nature of our surprise events." Harriet Hardy was the sole judge present for the introductory part of this challenge, as was customary for the surprise bake. "You will open the envelopes in front of you, and will have one hour to complete a recipe — from memory — which fits the requirement inside."

  Twelve white envelopes had been laid on each of the tables. Inside would be a card printed with a single phrase — but with a difficult surprise twist. Not just 'Victoria sponge,' but 'Victoria and Albert sponge,' for instance; or 'crown and cake.' It was up to the contestants to make something of it, with the blindly-chosen ingredients they had brought to the challenge.

  The cameras were rolling, so I couldn't get close enough to see what the card inside said. Instead, I saw a flurry of cards dropped on the counter as bakers dove for their baskets of supplies.

  Bowls beneath mixing beaters, clouds of flour, cartons of eggs. I saw Dinah rummaging through her basket, the color draining from her face as she paused. I felt my blood chill a little at the possible reasons for this.

  The challenge was a soufflé. Not just any soufflé, but a fruit-themed one. The card simply read 'pink fruit' for its description of the dish. Bakers made a mad dash to cobble creations out of extracts instead of fresh fruit, or make sauces with dried fruits and food dye. Some of the creations which emerged from the ovens looked more like bulbous, hideous science experiments than dishes fit for human consumption.

  This is why the 'pop quiz' bake, as Nathan called it, is a dreaded Baking Extravaganza event.

  First up was Emily's. It was studded with tiny little flecks of dried fruit, and had a strawberry sauce to spoon over its top, which Pierre and Harriet both claimed didn't taste too artificial.

  Second, the boy whose frogs and pirate gingerbread ship had been noteworthy for different reasons. His was a perfectly puffed soufflé dyed a very pale shade of pink — with a 'surprise' citrus flavor that pleased the judges.

  Next, Dinah's.

  Even before Harriet's fork sank into its top, I could see something had gone wrong. The top was dipped below the rim of the soufflé dish. The whole dessert seemed to list to one side, and was far too pale for one of Dinah's usual soufflés. Even the clear red-pink syrup served beside it wouldn't fix that.

  "It has fallen," said Pierre, with a tsk of sympathy.

  "I think it's never risen," said Harriet, suspiciously. "I think it's missing an ingredient or two. Look at that pale texture," she said, splitting it open further. "And the sauce is the only shade of pink and the only fruit flavor we're getting with this one."

  "Yes, but the card simply says 'fruit and pink.' It does not say how much. And the edge, look at the edge — it has risen a little, no? It has sunken. That is the mark of an improper oven temperature."

  "Surely you don't think there's a proper rising agent in this? And that sauce —"

  "Ah, but it is that overripe fruit taste that you English cooks love, is it not?"

  Dinah came in ninth place. The only soufflés which fared worse were the neon pink one, the explosive one that was oozing from its baking dish, and the undercooked one that was practically soup inside. Poor Leeman Lawson came in eighth, while the magic of Jenny Bryce's new whisk finally paid off with a first place finish.

  ***

  After the surprise challenge, Dinah barricaded herself in her cottage for the rest of the day. She didn't answer the door, and didn't answer her mobile when any of us called to make sure she wasn't giving up. Dinah couldn't and wouldn't, we knew ... but what we didn't know was how she was planning to face the final challenge.

  "Made a proper mess of it, I did," she muttered, as she had packed up her remaining ingredients. "There were too few eggs. Harriet Hardy wasn't wrong about that — and I'd nothing of fruit in my basket except a bottle of cherry extract and a bit of cordial, wouldn't you know? I couldn't have done much worse if I had brought a poke with a pig's head in it."

  "Don't be so hard on yourself," I soothed. "You've been in the top five before, and you can do it again. Besides, at least Pierre thought your flavors were nice."

  "Like scrambled eggs with jam, I'll wager," said Dinah. She had scraped the soufflé into the garbage with considerable vigor. "I'll not have any of that again. What a mess, what an utter disaster."

  No reassuring words would end her self-scolding. And now even Geoff and Gemma hadn't a clue what Dinah was doing to win back her old confidence.

  "I'm not coming out again until I know I can make myself proud in the final," she had told them. "That's all I can do. And I'm going to work as hard as is necessary to do it." And with that, she had ended contact with the outside world for the time being.

  I sought out Gemma for further updates, but she was busy helping clean the breakfast parlor. There was nobody in the kitchen except for Pierre Dupine, who was in the midst of making bread.

  Various mixing bowls were on the table, along with a canister of flour, a bottle of oil, and a cutting board sprinkled with fresh herbs. The French chef's sleeves were rolled above his elbows, his arms and hands coated in flour as he kneaded a large wad of dough on the table's surface. There was even flour flecked here and there in the weathered ridges of his face.

  "Sorry," I said. "I didn't realize someone was using the kitchen." I turned to go, but I heard him speak.

  "Stay, stay," he said. "It is fine. It is bread, not a private affair." He smiled. "I bake when I wish to clear my head — and my palate — between judging. Come, do whatever you wished. It will not be an intrusion."

  "I was going to make a cup of tea," I said. "Want one?"

  His smile changed subtly — one of humor, I thought, from the spark in his eyes. "You English and your tea," he said. "I have had to learn to acquire a taste for having it served at many unusual times of day."

  "I'm not English," I reminded him.

  "Ah, but you are," he said. "In the heart." He tapped one flour-stained finger against his chest, but his eye was on my ring finger. "Or am I wrong about your mariage?"

  I blushed. "You're correct," I said. "I'm married to the estate's former gardener, actually." I turned the heat on beneath the kettle, and took two everyday teacups from the nearby shelf.

  "Love...patriotism...food. They all have the same root. But which is stronger?" he asked. "Some would say love. It can make a person leave the other two behind. You live in England, no? You drink tea instead of your beloved coffee, and give up your doughnuts for biscuits."

  I had lifted down a tin I had kept hidden behind a box of rice, one which held several cherry pistachio snaps that Dinah had frozen after a ladies' luncheon. "I do miss doughnuts," I admitted. "And I miss America. But I love Matt...and I think we'll always find a way to compromise, and share each others' worlds." As we talked, I posed the biscuits neatly on the plate, the way Gemma did at tea.

  "As for myself," said Pierre, who twisted his dough into a beautifully complex shape with one hand, "I think about love when I cook. But I think there are passions stronger than love. And when there are — there is no ea
sy compromise, perhaps. Then what does one do?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I guess I've never thought about it." I placed the plate on the table. "Have you?"

  I remembered that neither of the Baking Extravaganza's judges was married. It was surprising, given that they were both talented, famous, and fairly attractive — a baker as handsome as Pierre, up to his elbows in delicious, aromatic dough, would surely have caused more than one female French chef to swoon.

  "Often," he answered. "Bread makes me very philosophical, you would say. One could solve the world's problems, perhaps, if all its leaders would only bake bread." The spark in his eye became a twinkle with these words. In one quick motion, he popped the beautiful globe of dough in his hands into a bowl. Carefully, he covered the top with a little cling film, then with a cotton cloth.

  "As my mother did, long ago," he said. "Only without the plastique underneath."

  I poured the kettle into the waiting teapot, then poured a cup of tea and handed it to him. "You must really love cooking," I said. "So do you love judging other people's dishes, too? Especially English ones?"

  He laughed. "I must do something to get out of my restaurant now and then," he said. "An old friend asked me if I would do this. I obliged. It is a good adventure. And even when the food is not the same ... the passion is. You understand?"

  "I think so," I said. I took a biscuit from the plate, then nudged it closer to Pierre. I dunked my own in my teacup before taking a bite. Pierre reached for one and snapped a piece out of it. He inspected it between his fingers, his expression the same serious one from the television program, before he took a bite.

  I waited a long time as he tasted it. At last, Pierre spoke.

  "Rich...delicate...and not too sweet," he said. "This baker should be proud of their biscuit. Its simplicity is deceptive. I would give it a place in a patisserie showcase."

  "Would you?" I said. "Would you say its baker is ... let's say ... worthy of top marks in The Grand Baking Extravaganza?"

  "Worthy of winning, you ask?" The knowing twinkle in Pierre's eyes grew brighter. "I would agree that it is so."

  "Have another, then." I took a sip of my tea.

  Matt was in the newly-planted herb garden, trimming the bug-damaged stems and leaves when I found him. His figure was outlined in the fierce light before sunset, with the coastal wind ruffling his dark hair as he lifted his gaze and smiled at my approach. Studying his features, the ruddy, swarthy touch of the sun, I imagined that Pierre Dupine's face was similar to what Matt's would be in twenty years, with creases along his brow and a touch of white in his dark hair ... but I stopped myself before this fantasy had Matt and I as pensioners kneading bread together in a tiny French village boulangerie.

  "Are you only just now finished?" he asked, pocketing his plant shears. "I thought they cleared away the dining room crowd long ago."

  "I was doing some covert research," I said, nestling against him as I laid my head on his shoulder.

  "Then shall we be homeward bound?" he said. "We could try out a new dish, a bit of a challenge for your budding skills. Pierre Dupine has a recipe for two-bird roast, which I found online this morning. There's a quail and a chicken in our fridge ... and a bit of liver paste that would mould nicely with some veg for the innermost stuffing."

  Eerie coincidence? I found myself giggling at the thought. "No, thanks," I said. "It's too soon after the treacle pudding incident. I think I'd like to postpone my cooking resolution temporarily in favor of scrambled eggs."

  "Then let us go toast some bread instead." His arm wrapped itself around my shoulders as we took the long way to the manor's driveway by way of the cliffs path.

  I wondered if Matt would bake a loaf of bread tonight if I asked him. Just curious.

  ***

  Dinah's campaign of silence continued along with her effort to restore her confidence in her talents. From outside her cottage, the three of us — Geoff, Gemma, and me — stood beneath Geoff's umbrella on a drizzly morning and watched Dinah through her kitchen's window glass.

  She took no notice of us as she thumbed through various notebooks and recipe cards, pounding something with a pestle, tasting it with a shake of her head, then turning to slice something paper-thin at her cutting board, tossing it into a little pot on the stove.

  "It's like a chemist's shop in there," said Gemma, as Dinah scrutinized her latest ingredient's portion, leveling off the top of the spoon with a surgeon's precision.

  "It puts me more in mind of alchemy," said Geoff. "The olden days of skills part wizardry, part science," he added, in response to Gemma's confused expression.

  "That could be the very definition of the culinary arts themselves, couldn't it?" I said, with a smile for this joke. "It takes a little of both magic and science to make a perfect dish."

  "You mean like Harry Potter or something," said Gemma.

  There was something about Dinah's intense concentration that put me in mind of the Sorcerer's Apprentice, I had to admit. She was furiously grinding some spice into a red powder in one of the many bowls crowded haphazardly between the table's contents, dipping in a quick finger to taste the quality before scribbling a note on a sheet of paper.

  When she raised her head, we waved, quickly. Disappointingly, she didn't see us, already turning rapidly to whatever was bubbling on the stove.

  In the pocket of my rain coat, my mobile rang. I pulled it out, and saw Lady Amanda's number onscreen. "Hello?" I said.

  "Julianne, where are you?" she said.

  "I'm just running a quick errand," I said, trying to think of a reasonable story that didn't involve three desperate friends standing outside another's house.

  "Hurry back, please. She's taking over the kitchen ... dinner plans ... not a clue where ..."

  "Lady Amanda? You're breaking up," I said. I checked the mobile's signal, seeing the cursed symbol for weak coverage. "What did you say?"

  "...she wants everyone there tonight, too." This was the last intelligible line from Lady Amanda before we were disconnected.

  "I have to go," I said to Gemma and Geoff. "I think there's a crisis in the manor's kitchen." I had given Kitty most of the day off to ensure that she wouldn't find an excuse to miss seeing the performance at the Minack, so there was no one at the manor right now to help.

  "I'll drive you there," said Geoff. "Let's be off, shall we?" Beneath the umbrella's shelter we three moved reluctantly down the walking path from Dinah's house to his car.

  The kitchen wasn't in chaos, but it was definitely abuzz with activity when Gemma and I entered. Total strangers in restaurant smocks were unpacking boxes of groceries, pots and pans, and crates of wine on Dinah's scrubbed work table and the various counters. In the midst of this stood the ever-sophisticated Harriet Hardy in a dark designer dress and un-sensible patent leather heels by Valentino, directing her staff where to go.

  "Hi," I said. "Is all this for the show?" There couldn't be another 'pop quiz' for the bakers, right? They were all in the midst of practicing for the final challenge — and besides, I didn't recognize any of these people as members of The Grand Baking Extravaganza's production crew.

  Harriet turned away from one of her assistants, to whom she had been speaking in French until now. "Of course not," she said. "This is the staff from my restaurant, Ms. Rose. As per my tradition, we are cooking dinner for the contestants, our hosts, and their friends. No, Rupert — put the chard by the sink, if you please."

  So that's what Lady Amanda must have meant by 'she wants everyone there.' "Is there anything I can do?" I asked. "I can cook. Sort of." This last part I felt obliged to add, even though Dinah considered me a decent hand in the kitchen.

  "I see," said Harriet Hardy. "It would be lovely to have additional help, if you have time." She snapped her fingers, and an assistant rushed up with an apron. "There is a great deal to be done, and there is no one assigned to the chopping station as of yet."

  Assigned? "Sure," I said. "Wherever you need me —" But the ass
istant had already laid out chopping boards and knives, and what looked like a boatload of vegetables. I saw Gemma donning an apron as well, giving me a look somewhere between excitement and bewilderment for all this.

  Harriet Hardy herself never donned an apron or a smock, yet managed never to splash anything onto her silk dress as she patrolled the kitchen, inspecting the prep for every dish, and tasting everything in each pot with the same skeptical expression she wore when tasting contestant's bakes. In between, she consulted some very yellowed recipe cards and a threadbare French cookbook that I realized must be from her personal recipe collection.

  Two soups, three vegetable dishes, two meat dishes with sauce, and a dessert served with custard. Sounds pretty simple, doesn't it? So why did it feel like we were cooking for an army as we scrubbed, peeled, chopped, and boiled everything from carrots and onions to spinach and chard? No sooner did I finish with a vegetable, then one of Harriet's assistants whisked it away to one of the many pots boiling or simmering on Dinah's stove, where Harriet stalked ceaselessly, checking the temperature and consistency of every dish in between whisking and stirring her own ingredients.

  "Two pinches," said Harriet, to the assistant who held a bowl of spices the chef had grated herself, a small mountain of nutmeg as she whisked a pot of cream.

  "Two? Doesn't this recipe usually call for one?" he said.

  "Two," she repeated, in a crisp tone that suggested that Harriet's staff would find it easier not to argue her, and probably seldom did. He obeyed this time, then went to fetch another ingredient, during which time, Harriet reached for the dish and added a third pinch to her sauce before tasting it. A satisfied expression appeared on her face, and she gave the whisk a firm tap against the pan's side.

  The open recipe book was turned to a Provencal gratin dish involving green leafy vegetables and a sauce of some kind. I saw several notes had been made in pencil to the side of the recipe. As quickly as my eye landed on the page, Harriet closed the book's covers — but not before I saw the last page held its author's picture, a very familiar weathered profile beneath a mane of dark hair.