Bake Off

My first and only love is baking. You name it, I’ve baked it. Owning my own shop complicates that love a bit, but I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. Even if it means dealing with customers who have their own ideas about what or how I should bake, I’ll take it over some awful desk job — and I’ve worked my fair share of those. 

The best and worst time of year to be in the baking business is the holidays. It’s the best for the obvious monetary reasons, but it’s the worst in part because of the stress of the additional work which takes away from the enjoyment of baking, but in larger part thanks to the town’s annual Holly Day Festival. The festival is named after the originator, Holly, who owned her own bakery in town many years ago. All of the local vendors set up shop for the day in the town center so residents and local visitors can come enjoy some holiday festivities and shopping. It’s a longstanding tradition as well as a longstanding pain in my ass. It’s not that I hate Christmas or the holiday season because I don’t. I just hate what it has all become. I hate the false niceties and the insane consumerism, the pressure to be constantly happy and find just the right gifts, and I hate the pitying look people give me when they ask me every year if I’m bringing anyone home for the holidays and they get the same answer, ‘just bringing home my baked goods filled with love.’

You see, I missed my chance at love. At least the kind of love they’re referring to. Do I kick myself now looking back at what could’ve been? What I could’ve said if I’d just had the courage, or more accurately, the confidence? Of course. But unrequited love isn’t an issue with my baked goods — the love is definitely mutual there, so I focus on that. That and getting through the Holly Day Festival. This year is going to be extra challenging because the new mayor decided to put their own twist on the festival by adding a bake-off to the day’s agenda. And not just any bake-off, a bake-off between me and the only other baker in town, Ambrose Mattern. 

Ambrose opened his bakery just down the road from mine earlier this year. I initially felt kind of bad for him because I know how loyal the people in this town tend to be and how resistant to change they are, so I knew his business would struggle. But to meet him is to hate him. He’s your classic trust fund baby nightmare compounded by the fact that he’s alarmingly handsome and abundantly aware of it. Think Armie Hammer meets Robert Redford and that’s Ambrose. Naturally all of the divorcees, teenage girls, and lonely middle-aged spinsters fawn all over him. I’m only comforted by the fact that those same girls/women frequent my bakery and tell me no one can beat my scones, but then again they could be lying to be for all I know. I would hope the desire to support a fellow woman’s business would outweigh they’re sexual fantasies with the dreamy-looking bakery, but I guess only time will tell. Which is why I have to win the bake-off. Baking is my love, but it’s also my identity. Ambrose Mattern can’t take that away from me — I won’t let him. With the festival only a week away, I’ve been test baking nonstop. I’ve even started having those nightmares like the ones you have when you’re in school where you have a test that you haven’t studied for and completely forgot about. At least I’m not naked in them though so that’s something. 

Walking to the shop this morning, I was mentally concocting a new recipe to try with orange flavoring and cardamon while sipping my first cup of coffee when I spotted someone waiting outside the door. I was still too far away to make out anything other than their height and bright blue knit scarf, but as I got closer the harder I clutched my coffee cup. I dug my nails so deeply into my cup through my gloves that I could feel the seams of the fingers making a mark on the pads of my fingers. Ambrose Mattern is standing outside my bakery door. What in the hell could he want? He’s probably here to brag about his new, overly designed store sign which when lit at night can surely be seen from space. It’s a complete abomination and totally anachronistic to small town store fronts, but a big wig like him must subscribe to the belief that bigger (and brighter) is better. I was mentally preparing what I would say to him to make him acutely aware of my thoughts on his sign in a way that was smart and subliminal, yet still cutting as I walked the remaining steps to my storefront. 

“Good morning,” I heard myself say in what I thought was a surprisingly convincing chipper tone.

“Mornin’ bake lady,” he said as he flashed his million dollar smile, blinding me with his overly whitened and perfectly straight teeth. I noticed his eye crinkles at the corner of both of his eyes as he smiled at me, which must be another feature the women in town swoon over when speaking to him. I also took note of his use of ‘lady,’ which I safely assumed was a title reserved for me and not one he used when speaking to his swooning sycophants. 

“What can I do for you this early in the morning?” I asked with genuine curiosity. I reached into my bag for my keys, inserted the key into the front door, unlocked it, and swiftly opened it all in one comfortingly familiar motion. I held the door open for him since I wasn’t cruel enough to allow him to freeze in the twenty degree December weather that is Pennsylvania in the winter. 

“Well,” he started saying as he gave me a nod in thanks for inviting him into my shop, “I thought I’d come over and wish you luck and offer you a little advice in advance of our competition next week,” he said with a mischievous look in his eye and a slight smirky smile.

I was clearly taken aback, which my face must’ve conveyed because without my saying a word he said, “I’m in the holiday spirit, so I’d hate for you to lose to the new baker in town. That would just be humiliating.” He finished with a wink for evil measure and to emphasize the cocky tone in his voice.

“I’m sorry you wasted the trip then,” I said with measured calm, “because I have no intention of losing to you, so you can take your holiday spirit elsewhere.” 

I didn’t even give him the pleasure of looking at him as I spoke. I busied myself with removing my puffer coat, gloves, hat, and scarf and hung them on the hooks behind the counter. Finally turning to face him again and turn on the remainder of the shop lights, I looked up expecting to see a cocky smile still on his face, but instead he’d walked back to the front door and had it ajar with his back toward me. Just before he closed the door completely as he walked out, he turned around, met my gaze and slowly walked down the street toward his own bakery.

I was completely flustered and flummoxed. I played the whole conversation over and over in my head as I went about my day. My initial impression when I was in the heat of the moment of conversation was that he was bating me just to be a jerk, but as the day wore on and the replay wore on in my mind, I was becoming less convinced. Maybe I was the jerk. Maybe he was trying to be nice, and my own preconceived notions of him were rendering me blindly ignorant. Why do I even care? And why am I obsessing over this? 

The rest of the week went by in more of the same fashion, and before I knew it, it was Holly Day. My alarm went off at the usual 5 a.m., but I didn’t need it because my anxiety served as an internal alarm clock that wouldn’t be silenced. I don’t know if I actually slept or was somewhere between awake and asleep for most of the night. I forced myself out of my warm bed and into a scalding hot shower, hastily dried my hair and put makeup on before heading out to the bakery well before the noon start of the festival. When the bell on the bakery door rang at 7 a.m. I jumped perceptively. I half expected to see Ambrose standing in the doorway although I’m not sure why, but instead it was Mayor Lynnette bedecked in all her holiday glory including a Santa hat, dangly Christmas tree earrings, a red and white candy cane striped sweater beneath her fluffy white coat, and white fur gloves. 

“Happy Holly Day! I’m sorry to have startled you, but I’m so glad you’re here,” the mayor said in a somewhat exasperated voice. “There has been a change of plans for the bake-off today.” She readjusted her lopsided Santa hat and removed her gloves, placing them on the counter as she pulled out her cell phone from her coat pocket. “The next down over had a pipe burst causing damage to their storefronts, which means they won’t be able to have their own holiday festival this year and their mayor has asked if we’d be willing to do a combined Holly Day with them. I of course had to agree because I don’t want to be known as the Grinch of mayors, but that now means the bake-off will be a team event,” Lynette said almost as though she rehearsed it. She looked up at me expectantly as if she wanted me to make this easier for her by finishing her thought, but I was still struggling to process all the information she just spit out at me so quickly. When I didn’t say anything she continued. “So that means you and Ambrose will be baking together to compete against the other team of two other bakers from the town over.”

Before I could stop myself I heard myself saying, “Absolutely not,” quite forcefully. 

Looking as though I’d slapped her in the face, Lynette quietly said, “I know it’s less than ideal, but it could be a lot of fun! Plus, now no one in town will have to pick between the two of you and just support you jointly. It’s a win-win really.”

“Do I have a choice in the matter?” I asked with genuine concern.

“Not really, unfortunately,” Lynette said as she chewed on her lower lip. “In fact, Ambrose should be here any minute since I told him to pop over here at 7:15 to start game planning your joint baking.”

And as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she grabbed her gloves, pocketed her cell phone and practically ran out of the door. I was in the middle of removing my apron and crumpling it into a ball to throw against the wall when I heard the front bell ring again. I was quickly trying to form my facial features into an expression combining nonchalance and confidence to armor myself against Ambrose, but felt my shoulders relax when I heard:

“Do you always turn your back on your best customers?” from the most familiar voice in my life.

Lane and I have been friends since childhood. She grew up across the street from me, and was the exact and only person I wanted to see right now. 

Seeing the apparent relief on my face, she continued, “The whole town is already buzzing about the switch-a-roo to the bake-off, so naturally I figured you’d be the last to know.” She lamely stifled a chuckle before saying, “Shay, you and I both know you’re the best baker in town. You’ve been doing this for years now, and I’m not just talking about baking. Wouldn’t it be nice to try something new to change things up?”

“Wow, Laney. I’m actually impressed; this must be a new record. It’s been a good 6 months since you’ve given me this speech,” I said with a slight note of irritation in my voice.

“What can I say, I may not be able to bake like you, but I can see things that you don’t,” she said maternally. 

“Geez you’re starting to sound like both of our mothers,” I replied impatiently.

“Well one thing I know for sure is that you aren’t a quitter. Just do the damn bake-off with Ambrose, win like you always do, and then go back to your solitary bake-filled life after it’s over,” she said as she backed her way toward the door while still facing me. “Oh, and if I were you, I’d put some lipgloss and a touch of perfume on.” And with a closing wink, she left just as Ambrose came walking up the opposite way.

He had a coffee cup in either hand, which he carefully stacked one on top of the other in order to use one hand to open my shop door. He walked across the store and dropped my coffee on the counter and said, “Great day to do something you don’t want to do, huh?” Finding myself uncharacteristically speechless, I made no response. With the silence becoming overpoweringly awkward, he said nervously, “But I figured coffee always helps.” Again filling the silence I again caused he continued, “Please tell me you drink coffee.”

To which I couldn’t help but genuinely laugh and respond, “Of course I do. Can you run a bakery without drinking coffee?”

Seeming a little less nervous by my laughter, he chuckled himself and said, “I definitely can’t.”

With the awkward first words over between us and the warm conciliatory coffee coursing its way through my veins, I said, “Listen, I appreciate the coffee, but let’s just get this over with, shall we?” I didn’t even pause for him to respond before I carried on by saying, “I always make my chocolate hazelnut cookie pie and I don’t have any intention of making anything different. It wins every year and I already have everything for it, so let’s just get started, okay?”

“Woah, woah, woah. I’m not just going to sign my name to something I didn’t bake. No way. No offense to your pie — I’m sure it’s great, but I make a meringue that’ll blow your pie out of the water. I’ve been making it since I was a kid when I’d visit my grandparents at the Hamptons every summer.”

“The Hamptons, huh?” I said judgmentally, “That sounds really nice,” with cutting bitterness. I paused a beat before continuing, “I know everyone — or should I say every woman in this town idolizes and fawns all over you, but I’m not one of them, so you can take your Hamptons meringue and shove it —

But before I could finish my sentence, he was walking behind the counter, taking his coat, scarf, and hat off and putting them on the hook next to my own things. He grabbed my spare apron hanging on the last remaining hook and walked over to my oven and set it to preheat. Once completed, he turned to look me straight in the eye and say, “You clearly have the wrong impression of me, which is fine, so let’s just get this over with like you said.”

Instead of diffusing my anger, his remark incited me even more. I marched over between him and my oven to reset the preheat to a higher temperature even though it didn’t need to be. I expected him to have backed out of my way, but when I turned around he was still exactly in the same spot. He was so close I could feel the warmth of his arm tantalizingly close to mine with the growing warmth of the oven radiating behind me. My brain was telling me to move out of the way, but my body wanted to stay put, which I did. I self consciously rain my fingers through my hair and averted my gaze from his. I felt like a magnet was pulling me closer to him, but I wasn’t even consciously aware I was allowing my body to be drawn to him. 

Bending over to bring his face directly in front of mine, he whispered, “Should we bake?”

I put my hands on the oven behind me to steady myself since I suddenly felt wobbly, but quickly removed them since the surface was already quite hot. 

In an instant, he had both of my hands in his and whisked me over to the sink to wash cold water on them. The chill of the water combined with the warmth of his body next to me sent goosebumps up my arms. He walked back to the counter to retrieve a towel and handed it to me to dry my hands off. Without thinking, without even consciously realizing it, I was briskly walking back toward him forcing him to walk backward until he bumped into the counter, and forcefully kissed him. He kissed me back without hesitation. His hands were around the small of my back and our bodies were pressed up against one another. He finally gently separated his lips from mine, his face still close, and said with an amiable glint in his eye, “We can make meringue and chocolate hazelnut pie work together, right?" 

I giggled lightly and shrugged, “One way to find out.”