Creamy-Sweet Dream

The sweet creamy scent of vanilla buttercream that dances in the air of a culinary school’s bakery department comforts me. Raised within a family that owns and runs a flourishing full-service bakery, I simply have to shut my eyes and memories of my grandpa, father, and any assortment of uncles, aunts, and cousins flood my mind. The Constantine family live and breathe for bread, cookies, rolls, cakes, danish and pastries. Working side by side with my elders, I dreamed of the day I would lead our bakery into the next generation. I didn’t just want to run the place; I wanted to create something new with it.

“I’m pulling out of the competition,” I declare, voice steady despite the fluttering of my heart. Whispers float around me, the gasps of disbelief.

“Edward, wait!” Amanda, who had sat among the judges, warns. “Do you realize what you are walking away from? You can’t be serious!”

“I do, and I am,” I reply, rolling my shoulders back. “With respect to you, the school, this monumental contest, I have nothing to prove here—not to anyone. And not to myself.”

I knew what this meant. In this room, the inhabitants knew what happened, but outside the walls of the culinary institute, the results of the contest would show the winner, Brandon Ryan. They wouldn’t even list me as the runner-up. I was a scratch. Brandon will get the recognition, the prestige. He will get the automatic job offers.

“We have no choice but to award the winning contestant, the only one left in the competition, with the internship.” The judges announced after much deliberation.

Furious at me for dropping out, Brandon’s eyes narrow. “That’s a coward’s move! You knew that even in a mangled pile of cake and frosting, my entry beats yours.”

“Maybe,” I say, a gentle smile spreads across my face as I realize the bravery I exhibited in the face of fear—the fear of not measuring up, the fear of obscurity. I would no longer let anything but my merit define my worth.

To reach the stage where I get to decide my direction within the family bakery, I had to learn what each family member brings to the table with their own individual expertise. I had dreams of creating edible masterpieces of artistry and design that were as deliciously pleasing as they were to look at. With the full support of my family, they gifted me a spot training at New York’s most prestigious school of baking, the DuShane Culinary Institute. Küchenchefe Amanda DuShane, known around the world as one of the top German pastry chefs in the industry, accepted only the top candidates. To get into her school as a student was an honor.

I am Edward Constantine, and I’m described by my family as a thoughtful and outgoing man in my thirties stuck in the whirlwind of culinary dreams beyond the family operation. Even though our store wasn’t known for making wedding cakes, my family stood by me when I confessed to my desire to specialize in making wedding cakes.

Though I have missed being at the bakery with Mama and Pops, I’ve enjoyed every minute spent here at the institute, exploring all things bakery. Experimenting with flavor combinations and crafting fondants and icing that can withstand the many design challenges I introduce, I’ve made a name for myself among the best of my fellow students and am on the verge of expanding my career beyond my wildest dreams.

To learn from the talented staff at DuShane’s has unleashed my creativity. Honing a beautiful mosaic of tiles representing my skills and recipes, I have added to my talent. Yet, that stunning mosaic often feels fragile, on the brink of shattering when my insecurities creep in. Coming to class every day has been a pleasure only marred by one man; my arch enemy, my nemesis. Brandon Ryan.

Shaking my head to dislodge the thoughts of Brandon as I walk through the door into the Lehrküche, I take solace from the tools of the trade. Mixing bowls, spatulas, piping bags, and layers of thick fondant waiting to be molded into something exquisite. These are my palate, my paints, my brushes.

I run my hand along the silver edge of the stainless steel tables, and revel in the neatly displayed assembly of equipment on the shelves at each station. The massive oven with its revolving shelves, which ran all day in yesterday’s taste-test activities, has mostly cooled off.

Today is the last day of competition in DuShane's annual wedding cake contest. It is all the students have talked about for weeks. A grand opportunity for aspiring bakers like myself to showcase our skills before some of the biggest names in the industry. For me, it could be my ticket into the finest wedding cake bake shop in town. An internship at L’Gateau Mariage Devin would seal the deal for the future of Constantine Patisserie.

I can feel my face heating as I take my place, but it’s not from the oven. It was all I could do to sleep last night and I am more than flustered still. We started with six contestants, and after the last elimination before the finals, it came down to two; myself, and Brandon Ryan.

Prepared the day before and stored overnight, I remove the winning recipe cake layers from the refrigerator and bring them to my station. For the decorating stage, I chose a simple three-tier style traditional wedding cake design. I catch myself looking across at Brandon.

Quite the opposite of me, Brandon is a loud and bullish guy who seems to thrive in the chaos created by his own arrogance. I’ve never had much in common with him; there’s something about the way he redirects his flaws and projects them onto others that leaves my mouth tasting foul. I can always tell when he’s coming my way. Laughing at anyone’s expense, his booming roar precedes him and commands attention.

“Looks nice for an amateur.” Brandon sneers, loud enough for almost everyone in the room to hear. “You will do well when you go back to the little mom and pop store your family calls a bakery.” He gestures a sickeningly sweet smile toward my delicately iced, lavender-tinged tower of confection I am assembling. I hate how he twists a disrespectful comment to sound like a compliment, then doubles down. “Around here your cake will impress no one? It looks like it belongs on a shelf in a flower shop, not at a wedding.”

A fire ignites deep in my chest, but I douse the flame, take a deep breath, and refuse to take the bait. I’ve spent too many years of basing my worth on Brandon’s vainglorious opinions. This went deeper than just his words, Deeper than our constant competitive nature throughout our simultaneous training at DuShane’s. As I wipe a smudge of icing off my hand, I remember the last time I let his taunts get to me.

It was back in grade school, the science fair, when I was experimenting with leavening. I baked my first cake using club soda and applesauce. I thought it was a tasteful marvel. Brandon had entered the science fair, too. Copying me, he had made a sheet cake from a box of premixed ingredients and decorated it with icing replicas of the planets in our solar system. His planets were almost recognizable, all the same greyish color except for the yellow sun in the center. With a small amount of effort, those planets in that solar system could have stood apart from one another. I would have made Jupiter striped orange, yellow and beige, Mars red, and one planet would have had rings, Saturn.

“What does your entry have to do with science?” Brandon teased. “Why would anyone care about a cake made with those ingredients when they can eat a cake that looks like this?” He had laughed so loudly that everyone turned to look.

I had followed the rules and designed an experiment using chemistry. All Brandon did was make a frosting picture on top of a cake. He won first prize in the fair. That day, I learned how merciless children could be and how adults were unreliable. Brandon taught me that people pay attention to the loudest voices regardless of what the voices are saying. Barely anyone looked for the science in my experiment, but they all could connect science to Brandon’s project.

“Keep it together, Edward,” I mutter to myself. At my station in front of everyone at school, I survey my cake. With my head lowered, I examine the lavender frosting, ensuring its softness and elegance as it gracefully drapes over the layers. I edge the layers with meticulously placed edible pearl beads I crafted using water and powdered sugar and coated with a lacquer that hardens to a dry, clear finish. Each petal of the delicate flowers I created in marzipan is tipped with lavender a few shades darker than the icing on the layers. I am proud of my work. Despite Brandon’s words from so long ago still echoing in my mind, I can master a creation that is, unlike his solar system, beautiful to behold. But Brandon’s harassing energy is still casting shadows over my accomplishments. Could I make something that looked as good as it tastes?

“You got this, Edward.” a shout rises above the group of spectators standing by to witness. The clock ticks down to the last minutes of the contest and soon it will expire. It’s as though my heart will wind down with the clock. Contestants eliminated in the first rounds are all around me and Brandon, waiting with held breath.

“Brando, Brando, Brando,” someone in the crowd starts a chant. Brandon begins to dance and swing around his station. So confident is he in his large, bulky wedding cake; six layers of blotchy icing in the worst color combinations, with unimaginative blobs resembling flowers.

I glance again at my cake, then back up to the crowded room. Amanda and the staff of teachers I have grown to admire with each passing class are sitting with the judges, and behind them are dignitaries from restaurants and bakeries in the greater New York area. For a moment, I can see the glimmers of appreciation in the eyes of onlookers. Amid the crowd’s chanting for my rival, I can see more people quietly looking at me. Every glance serves as a gentle reminder, affirming that I am more than just a shy person in the background. They recognize my talent above Brandon’s.

Amid the chaos, my mind zooms back to the science fair, thrusting me back to that painful day when I cared too much about fitting into someone else’s mold. All those moments since then I spent conforming to face someone else’s expectations. I pull away from those echoes of the past, from Brandon’s ridicule. I place one last flower on my cake.

I poured my heart into creating something beautiful, but I didn’t have to let someone else’s view diminish its value. There were always going to be those who made the most noise and they would get the attention. But sprinkled in throughout those people were the quiet ones who outnumbered them, and their opinions were far more valuable. It was as if the doors of opportunity were opening before my eyes. I could choose any restaurant or bakery in which to grow my reputation.

Just then, a loud crash sounded from Brandon’s station, and everything slowed down. Brandon had set the sheet pan upon which sat his entire cake too close to the edge and while he was celebrating his perceived victory dance to the beat of his fans shouting, one high kick came down and with the heel of his boot, knocked the corner of the tray. In slow motion, the layers went up. At the apex of their climb, they drifted apart and came crashing down into pieces as the chanting turned to hushed gasps. Nobody moved. Nobody said a word. I felt the sympathetic pain as the train wreck formerly known as Brandon’s creation flopped, bounced and splattered around his station.

I realize I still had deep insecurities from my past, and even though I am on the verge of winning a competition, the idea of continuing feels hollow. Do I need validation from this contest or from those judging me? Do I want to follow a path laid out by intimidation? I shake my head no. Much to everyone’s disbelief, I walk away.

As I walk toward the exit, I feel a weight lift. Behind me, the chatter shifts from confusion to admiration—perhaps even recognition of my choice.

I step back into the world outside the culinary institute where the sun warms my face. I see people scurrying about their business and hear the whir of traffic and an intermittent blast of a horn. New York.

I head for home and in the moment of solitude I find peace knowing that my creative journey is my own, and is no longer tethered to the laughter of bullies. My diploma from DuShane Culinary Institute speaks for itself. It is more than enough to create my path forward, liberated from the judgment of anyone else. Waiting for me at home is the family who supports me and my dreams. I realize that will always be enough.

To stand at the threshold of our shop and study the interior through the glass front door brings me the greatest pleasure. Mama in her apron is having a conversation with Aunt Mel while cousin Georgia cleans the display case. They catch sight of me and start waving their arms for me to come in. Into the inviting embrace as the vanilla and buttercream aroma swirls around me.

“Look, Eddie,” Mama says. “Your Pops wanted us to clear a spot in the display case for your creations.”

It’s as if they knew I was always going to return home. I need nothing more. Here at Constantine Patissserie, I find my recipe for success.