Page 86 of Babies at Coconuts

Chapter 60

Cheri barely slept all weekend after reading the Bridal Bonanza email. On Monday, she raced to her computer, coffee cup in hand. Scrolling past work and junk emails, she spotted a new email from Bridal Bonanza. Hovering over the incoming message, her stomach lurched, almost afraid to read the email. Finally, she forced herself to open the message and squealed.

They want me to be one of the three chefs in the cake competition. Dancing around the room doing fist pumps, Cheri refilled her coffee and made out an exhaustive grocery list.

Driving to her favorite grocery store in Branson, she bought a cart full of baking items. Once home, Cheri plunked bags of food on her counter, then rummaged through her pantry and fridge.

Face glistening with sweat, she set out several mixing bowls, measuring utensils, flour, sugar, oil, applesauce, sour cream, various nuts, fruits, edible flowers, pastry bags, and decorating tips.

Placing three large stainless steel mixing bowls on her brown and tan speckled granite counter, she scurried to the panty to gather armloads of ingredients. She put powdered sugar, white and brown sugar, vanilla, dark and semi-sweet chocolate chips, almond bark, caramel chips, pecans, and more on the countertop. Grabbing a long wooden spoon, Cheri shoved her hair out of her eyes, set the oven timer yet again, and ferociously mixed the batter.

In her rush, icing overflowed, dripped down the bowl, and onto the floor. The sticky bowls stuck to her hands. Cheri glanced at the clock as she licked her fingers. To hell with salmonella. I’ve never gotten sick from raw eggs before.

Stirring and scraping the sides with the wooden spoon, Cheri rushed to get the correct consistency as the buzzer went off. I feel like I’m on “Chopped.” According to her oversized stainless steel kitchen clock featuring a fork and spoon for hands, she had been working for forty minutes. Frustrated, she sighed and poured a glass of water. I haven’t even decorated the cakes.I’ve got to improve my time by fifty percent.

With her finger, she tasted the three frostings she had prepared—vanilla buttercream, lemon, and chocolate ganache. The sink overflowed with pans, bowls, and utensils. The mixer handle was covered with dried chocolate batter, and edible flowers were strewn across the counter.

Setting the timer once again, Cheri plunged in and began baking and decorating even more cakes. Savory treats were her specialty but her pride wouldn’t allow her to consult with her Fifth Avenue Catering pastry chef. She knew not doing so could prove to be a disastrous error, but since she owned the business, she hated for employees to see any weaknesses, plus she wanted to prove this to herself.

All weekend, she had researched cake photos on Google and Pinterest. Her favorites were printed out, spread across the counter, and dotted with icing from the spray of the mixer. After an hour, her kitchen looked like a sack of flour had exploded. Sticky batter dripped everywhere, but she couldn’t take the time to clean it up. Instead she simply straddled the mess.

Glancing back at the clock, she forgot what time she began and reset the timer on the microwave while the bare cakes cooled on racks. Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she stirred more batter in one of the few clean bowls she could find. The kitchen felt like a sauna but Cheri was too busy decorating to take the time to turn the air conditioning down.

I’m glad Nana can’t see this mess. She’d think I destroyed her gorgeous kitchen.

After three hours, Cheri assessed her progress. The chocolate ganache cake took one hour. The lemon cake layers took forty-five minutes, and she crossed the thirty-minute mark with the banana cake. However, the decorations looked sloppy and so did she. Maybe I can donate these to my neighbors or the Crystal City Senior Citizen Center.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she sighed as she blew stray hair out of her eyes. I’ve got to improve my speed if I have any chance of winning.

After the buzzer went off, Cheri pulled three more cakes out of the oven and touched the golden tops. Her imprint sprang back indicating they were done. She placed them on cooling racks and broke into a full-body sweat. The room was unbearably hot. Wiping perspiration from her brow with her sleeve, she poured her hot coffee down the sink.

Glancing at her many cake photos as if for an answer, she couldn’t decide which would be best for the competition—a modern black and white cake with dark chocolate and vanilla baked in square tiers, or a sweet, romantic raspberry lemon cake with round tiers. Or maybe a middle-of-the-road banana cake with fresh strawberries. She knew some brides preferred modern while many enjoyed traditional weddings.

I’ve got to go outside and clear my head. After a quick stroll around her neighborhood, Cheri had an epiphany and ran back inside. After washing a mixing bowl and finding the right ingredients, she created a glamorous all-white cake with rolled fondant pearls and a draped, pooled bottom, resembling an exaggerated train of a wedding dress.

Surprising herself, Cheri stood back to admire her creation. If the cake hadn’t been slightly off kilter and slanted, it would have been stunning—and perfect for the Bridal Bonanza. She sighed. It had taken far too long to decorate. Exasperated and exhausted, she said to no one, “I hope I’m up to this.”

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