LJ Idol Week 5 -- It's Not Tacky If You Wear It Well
“Young lady.” The man looking me square in the eye looks a lot like Curtiss Smoot from Fried Green Tomatoes, all greasy combovered hair and popping blue eyeballs. “Answer me this: did you or did you not copy Louise Carpenter’s recipe for lemon chiffon cake?”
I take a breath; I can smell the lemon zest and powdered sugar in the air. “As God as my witness, Mr. Green, I did not. The recipe for my lemon chiffon cake came out of my own head. And calling it a chiffon cake is technically a misnomer; it’s a bundt-style lemon pudding cake. It lacks the glaze that most chiffon cakes possess.” Saying all that while looking into his face, which was shiny from the North Carolina sun, was one of the harder things I’ve ever had to do. His face is damn ugly.
It was true that the two cakes did look strikingly similar, minus the glaze. But it was the Orange County Lemon Festival, and doing my signature chocolate cake seemed too contrary. Plus, Louise Carpenter was a whiny fluffamunk who had hated me ever since I’d punched her brother in the mouth in fifth grade for being too obnoxious to function. Everybody knew I could outbake her in a hot second, and her waving a spatula around spouting untruths about how I’d stolen her recipe would only prolong the inevitable. I was sure I’d win the bake-off, and the accompanying apprenticeship at the Coleman Cupcakery in Durham. I needed to win like burning. If I didn’t find an apprenticeship soon, Mama was bound to ship me off to Asheville to live with Daddy and his six hunting dogs, and Lord knows I did not want to live with Daddy and his six hunting dogs in Asheville.
Unfortunately, the key to me not being packed off to Asheville is standing right in front of me, in the form of Mr. Green’s powerful unattractive mug. “That might be so, young lady,” he says, and I want to say, ‘I have a name, you half-wit excuse for a cake-taster’ but restrain myself admirably. “The only way to tell is to taste them.” We return to the judges’ table, where he proceeds to tell Louise that her attempts to throw me out of the competition have been unsuccessful. She then looks like she’s trying very hard to pop a button right off that hideous flower dress of hers, bless her heart. I almost hope she succeeds, the dress might look better that way.
He takes a bite of Louise’s cake and then seems to take an entire half of an eternity writing down notes about it. Then he moves to mine and does the same, chewing, his face a composition of wrinkles that look like Highway 40. “There’s limoncello in this,” he says after a minute, his face unreadable. I cringe. I had been on the fence about adding the liquor to my cake, but I needed to make it sing a little more. He scribbles a few more lines in a tiny, cramped hand, then returns to confer with the other judges. He’s the last to taste, and the deciding factor. Louise and I wait, barely breathing, and I can feel sweat slide down my back. This must be what purgatory feels like. ‘Please God, don’t resign me to a life of beer guts, beagles and deer blinds,’ I think very hard to whatever deity might be listening. ‘Anything but that.’
Another little forever passes by, with the three judges whispering and rippling their notes at each other. Then Mr. Green stands up. I suck in a breath. “Today is an unprecedented day in the history of this festival,” he announces unctuously. This must be what he lives for every year. “Today, both Ms. Louise Carpenter and Ms. Claire Ann King have been awarded the coveted apprenticeship at Coleman Cupcakery!” He turns to the crowd, which bursts into startled applause. Oh. Oh. I take it all back. Obviously I have landed in hell. Good lord, give me beer guts, beagles and especially deer blinds. I think I might actually perish if I have to deal with Louise every day for six months in a heated environment.
We step forward together, one hand on each side of the bake-off trophy. I can see her teeth gritted in what might appear to be a smile, and I know mine are displayed similarly. Luckily, like the song says, I have indeed been saved by the grace of Southern charm, and maybe if I put enough sugar on top of my glares, we’ll both come through the apprenticeship with our sanity intact. One can only hope.
I take a breath; I can smell the lemon zest and powdered sugar in the air. “As God as my witness, Mr. Green, I did not. The recipe for my lemon chiffon cake came out of my own head. And calling it a chiffon cake is technically a misnomer; it’s a bundt-style lemon pudding cake. It lacks the glaze that most chiffon cakes possess.” Saying all that while looking into his face, which was shiny from the North Carolina sun, was one of the harder things I’ve ever had to do. His face is damn ugly.
It was true that the two cakes did look strikingly similar, minus the glaze. But it was the Orange County Lemon Festival, and doing my signature chocolate cake seemed too contrary. Plus, Louise Carpenter was a whiny fluffamunk who had hated me ever since I’d punched her brother in the mouth in fifth grade for being too obnoxious to function. Everybody knew I could outbake her in a hot second, and her waving a spatula around spouting untruths about how I’d stolen her recipe would only prolong the inevitable. I was sure I’d win the bake-off, and the accompanying apprenticeship at the Coleman Cupcakery in Durham. I needed to win like burning. If I didn’t find an apprenticeship soon, Mama was bound to ship me off to Asheville to live with Daddy and his six hunting dogs, and Lord knows I did not want to live with Daddy and his six hunting dogs in Asheville.
Unfortunately, the key to me not being packed off to Asheville is standing right in front of me, in the form of Mr. Green’s powerful unattractive mug. “That might be so, young lady,” he says, and I want to say, ‘I have a name, you half-wit excuse for a cake-taster’ but restrain myself admirably. “The only way to tell is to taste them.” We return to the judges’ table, where he proceeds to tell Louise that her attempts to throw me out of the competition have been unsuccessful. She then looks like she’s trying very hard to pop a button right off that hideous flower dress of hers, bless her heart. I almost hope she succeeds, the dress might look better that way.
He takes a bite of Louise’s cake and then seems to take an entire half of an eternity writing down notes about it. Then he moves to mine and does the same, chewing, his face a composition of wrinkles that look like Highway 40. “There’s limoncello in this,” he says after a minute, his face unreadable. I cringe. I had been on the fence about adding the liquor to my cake, but I needed to make it sing a little more. He scribbles a few more lines in a tiny, cramped hand, then returns to confer with the other judges. He’s the last to taste, and the deciding factor. Louise and I wait, barely breathing, and I can feel sweat slide down my back. This must be what purgatory feels like. ‘Please God, don’t resign me to a life of beer guts, beagles and deer blinds,’ I think very hard to whatever deity might be listening. ‘Anything but that.’
Another little forever passes by, with the three judges whispering and rippling their notes at each other. Then Mr. Green stands up. I suck in a breath. “Today is an unprecedented day in the history of this festival,” he announces unctuously. This must be what he lives for every year. “Today, both Ms. Louise Carpenter and Ms. Claire Ann King have been awarded the coveted apprenticeship at Coleman Cupcakery!” He turns to the crowd, which bursts into startled applause. Oh. Oh. I take it all back. Obviously I have landed in hell. Good lord, give me beer guts, beagles and especially deer blinds. I think I might actually perish if I have to deal with Louise every day for six months in a heated environment.
We step forward together, one hand on each side of the bake-off trophy. I can see her teeth gritted in what might appear to be a smile, and I know mine are displayed similarly. Luckily, like the song says, I have indeed been saved by the grace of Southern charm, and maybe if I put enough sugar on top of my glares, we’ll both come through the apprenticeship with our sanity intact. One can only hope.