Page 88 of Fire and Icing

Dustin smiles. He’s quiet while I brainstorm.

After a few moments I say, “I’ve got it!”

The camera crew gives us our cue, Kamela comes on and addresses the future viewers, the countdown clocks start and we’re off and running, making lemon-blueberry beignets with lemon curd and blueberry compote for dipping.

Everything goes well making the beignets. We have to leave them to rise for an excruciating hour while we do very little—just making the compote and putting it to chill and making the lemon curd, which I could do in my sleep.

The clock is ticking away and I feel it. We’re not on our game the way we have been the past few days. I’d love to blame it on the fact that Vanessa seems to pop by every ten minutes or so with a snarky comment or some critique of my relationship with Dustin, which of course is not really a relationship, but she doesn’t know that.

I can’t fully blame her for whatever’s off-kilter, though. Bakers work under pressure and the best bakers don’t let anything undermine their success.

“Can you check this compote?” Dustin asks.

It’s a sentence I never imagined I’d hear from him. I check the consistency.

“Looks good. Put it back in the fridge.”

I return to the curd, and it’s too late. The curd has curdled. The eggs have separated into flecks, making the curd grainy and lumpy instead of smooth.

“Ugh!” I shout, drawing both the cameraman and Vanessa’s attention.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, walking straight to our station.

“Nothing. The curd …” She’s the last person I want to explain myself to, but I’m also on camera, so I can’t exactly tell Miss Muffet to go sit on her tuffet.

“Grab me a strainer,” I tell Dustin.

He bends down, fishes through the pots and pans in the bottom drawer and comes up with a strainer. I attempt to strain the curd, but the silky texture is gone. No matter how much I strain it, tiny yellow flecks float to the surface like soggy confetti.

“Can we make another batch?” Dustin asks with those puppy dog eyes.

We’re down to the final twenty-five minutes. I could make more, but it wouldn’t have enough time to set, even in a quick chill.

“No,” I say, unable to hide the note of defeat in my voice.

“Well then, what can we do?” he asks.

“Pretty much, pack your bags,” Vanessa says under her breath.

Dustin ignores her.

“We’ll have to go forward with what we’ve got,” I say.

“Then let’s get to plating,” he says.

We plate the warm beignets, setting two small ramekins on the edge of each plate, one with the gorgeous compote, chunks of fruit and a glossy consistency making it stand out as a winner. And then the curd. Or sauce. I can’t fool anyone here. It’s not meant to be a lemon sauce. It’s a failed curd.

The judges do their tasting. Dustin stands next to me, his arm wrapped tightly around me like a real boyfriend. I’m too wrung out and exhausted to sort through the thousands of thoughts and emotions he draws up. Instead, I lean into his support and he steadies me.

After every dessert has been tasted, the judges deliberate. Then they come back with their decision as to who will be eliminated. Only three couples are going through to the Semi-Final round tomorrow. Three are going home.

Pack your bagsrings through my head in Vanessa’s smug tone of voice.

The first couple going through is announced. They jump up and down and hug. Then one of the judges runs through why they chose the next couple. It’s not us.

There’s only one spot left and four couples who fought for it.

Lemon curd. Of all the things, I’m going home over lemon curd.

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