A Bake Off in Cornwall, Page 3

  Pierre Dupine and Harriet Hardy were the two judges for the baking contests in England's southern counties. In every episode, they had been tough critics when it came to flaky pastry and stiff meringue, but especially Harriet Hardy, whose book of English cookery had been on every British cook's kitchen shelf for more than twenty years. I marveled that a woman who made a living crafting biscuit and cake recipes could be as slender as a twig — yet as firm and unbending as a fireplace log when it came to her standards of excellence. As for Pierre, he only seemed laid-back and charming in interviews; the moment he stood in front of a contestant's creation, you could practically hear their bones quaking as the eminent chef sampled it.

  A contest winner from Dorset squeaked a narrow victory over other competitors with a perfect cherry chip cake. This one would be just like the other episodes hosted between English counties — a mad, three-event dash by the bakers to complete each task to time and standards as the judges awarded them points, ending with an elaborate recipe that would determine which baker had won.

  "What have we here? Savory poppyseed biscuits? That wouldn't be for my cravings, would it, Dinah?" Lady Amanda had joined us, descending upon the platter of freshly-baked treats with relish.

  "Help yourself. The ones for the luncheon are already tucked away in the tin," said Dinah, who poured her cake batter into a buttered and floured pan. Needing no prompting, Lady Amanda took three.

  "Little Cynthia has such an appetite these days," said Lady Amanda, nibbling the edge of one. Beneath her soft silk caftan-style shirt, the slight outline of a 'baby bump' was now visible. "She won't let me keep anything down, but she insists on being fed regularly, all the same."

  "Cynthia? Is that the name you've chosen, if it's a girl?" I asked.

  "I'm giving it favor," said Lady Amanda. "I like it better than Violet — that was yesterday's choice. Anyway, it rather feels like Cynthia today. I can sense it in my bones, so I underlined it in the book. Alongside half a dozen others, I'm afraid. Oh, Julianne, I simply can't decide!"

  "You have five whole months left," I said. "You've only been thinking about it for a few weeks."

  "Yes, I know. Three weeks ago 'Natasha' struck me as a rather intriguing option, so you can see we've made some progress since then." She popped the last bite of the second biscuit into her mouth.

  "I've always been partial to Lily," said Gemma. "Lovely name, really. Or Pearl. Then a bloke would always call her 'his Pearl' like in the Hollywood Pride and Prejudice."

  "I've never heard a 'pearl' or a 'lily' drop from the lips of the blokes around here," said Dinah. "Blokes around here stick with 'the missus' and 'old girl,' and think those romantic phrases you have in mind are rubbish." She resifted the confectioner's sugar in her bowl, as if she couldn't quite reach the texture she wanted. I was beginning to think this particular cake must be a new recipe for her.

  "It isn't rubbish, it's just romance," said Gemma.

  "I didn't say it was rubbish, only that it's the opinion of others," said Dinah. Her usual sharpness towards giggling conversations in the kitchen had mellowed ever since Pippa left — Pippa, who had been the dreamiest of the two young women of Cliffs House's staff.

  As if reading my mind, Gemma sighed. "At times like this, I miss Pip," she said. "Think how disappointed she'll be that the baking contest's coming here now that she's in Hampshire. She told me she didn't even watch the northern counties' contest on the telly because she was busy working those nights."

  "At least she got to see Highclere Castle," I pointed out. Pippa had sent me a dozen photos of her posing excitedly on the grounds — Gavin had very sweetly arranged the outing on a day when they could have tea there, leaving Pippa in seventh heaven.

  "It's such a beautiful spot," said Lady Amanda. "I quite enjoyed Downton Abbey. What was the name of the Dowager again? Violet, wasn't it?" She tapped her finger against her lower lip, thoughtfully. Forget Cynthia: I knew its competition would be receiving a double underline in the baby names book tonight.

  "Do you think they'll let us sample the leftovers after the contest?" Gemma asked. "I mean, we'll be helping set up and clear away and all — not that any of them can hold a candle to Dinah's recipes, even Leeman himself." At this, Dinah's kitchen utensil let out a furious rattle, ending with a crash between pot, pan, and stirring spoon on the floor.

  "Blast!" She seized a dish rag and began mopping it up. "Gemma, mind the chocolate on the stove, please." Gemma sprang to the double boiler as I ran to help Dinah.

  "Is everything okay?" I asked.

  Dinah paused. Her eyes sneaked a quick look in the direction of Lady Amanda, who was in quest of a clean spoon for the chocolate. "Not quite," she whispered back. "May I — have a word with you?"

  It was nervousness in her voice: the first I had ever heard in the usually-unruffled calm of Cliffs House's cook. "Sure," I said. Nonchalantly, I withdrew to the pantry, where Dinah followed shortly. She lifted an extra box of confectioner's sugar from the shelf, then turned to face me.

  "I entered the contest," she whispered. "And they accepted me."

  My eyes widened. "Really?" I said. "Dinah that's gre—"

  "I can't believe it, even after a week," she continued, hastily. "I'm going to be on the program — a woman who's never so much as stirred in the direction of the spotlight before! Whatever shall I do?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled. "You're going to be on the show, of course. What else?"

  "I haven't a clue which recipes or what flavors I'll choose, to begin with — and I can't help thinking what it means for this place. It means a week of this place shifting with only Gemma in the kitchen, and a temporary cook, since I'll need time to prepare and practice ... they make those contestants work night and day before the grand finale."

  "You'll do whatever you have to do to get by," I said. "We'll all be so proud of you. No one will be surprised when you announce it, because everyone thinks you're the best, Dinah. Your marmalade and your saffron biscuits are perfection."

  "Pish posh," Dinah scoffed. "It isn't that I don't have confidence in my own skill. But this is television, my girl. And besides, I never dreamed I'd be chosen. I don't go about fantasizing about life, you know." Her voice softened a little. "Once, after I graduated from Paris, I thought about opening a little shop of my own someday — I never really thought about being top chef in a Michelin star restaurant, like the others dreamed. But I sent that application on a lark...I thought I'd just go on being content like always with a few compliments for a tea spread or a proper cake."

  "It's lucky they chose you," I said. "You'll have a great time. You might even win, Dinah."

  "Against a pack of cutthroat competitors and two sharks for judges?" she said, with a short laugh. "Leeman's not the only professional in that lot besides myself. There'll be proper pastry chefs and confectioners among them, and more than one who's been trained in Paris as well."

  "Paris isn't everything," I said, thinking of Pierre's begrudging compliment for a contestant's flaky sweet rolls inspired by mince pies. "I think you being yourself will be more than enough to rival the rest of the group, regardless of your training."

  "I'm just glad I've told someone at last," said Dinah. "It's been preying on me for weeks now. I've made daft mistakes in my cooking because of it ... but now I suppose I'll have to go through with it all." She pressed her hand to her cheek — one which was unusually flushed for Dinah.

  I squeezed her arm. "Go for it," I said. "I think Lady Amanda will be thrilled. Even if the rest of us are eating pickle sandwiches and shop biscuits for the rest of the week."

  ***

  On Monday morning, the first delivery trucks arrived with The Grand Baking Extravaganza's official equipment and crew. There was a crowd waiting at the village sign, cheering excitedly as the lorries motored by en route to Cliffs House.

  Flour, sugar, icing sugar, rising agents, treacle — all non-perishable goods had been delivered in advance. For the first event, we had arrange
d for them to set up in the manor house's ballroom, where, thankfully, Wendy Alistair's concert had created plenty of electrical outlets we could use for baking ovens and fridges, once the village electrician made some modifications and extensions. Now, the piano, chairs, and sofa were gone, replaced by matching rental tables covered with neat white cloths — row after row of work spaces for the contestants to lay out their supplies and ingredients. No cooking implements were provided, since each contestant was expected to supply everything they needed for their recipes, from mixing bowls to piping tools.

  The only decoration was the program's official logo, featuring the title and a slice of sponge with a fork stuck in it. Two crewmen suspended it from the ceiling in the form of a two-sided hanging sign.

  With the lorries of tables and baking ovens, arrived a rental car conveying the two judges. The first to emerge was Harriet Hardy, slim, imposing, and elegant in a rose-colored suit, not a stray curl escaping from her tightly-pinned, sleek hairstyle. Then Pierre Dupine, a swarthy Frenchman who might have looked at home on a pirate ship if not for his tailored suit — the graying hairs in his dark mane and crinkles around his eyes were a sign he was obviously well past middle age, and in another life would be a retired swashbuckler by now.

  "There they are," whispered Gemma, as we peeked from behind the lace curtains of the manor's front parlor. "Goodness, Harriet Hardy looks more frightening in the flesh than on the telly, doesn't she?"

  "She's imposing," I said, inwardly wincing for Dinah's sake. Dinah, who had taken a week's holiday from Cliffs House starting yesterday, to avoid any accidental conflict of interest as the estate's cook, wasn't here to join us for this sneak peek. "But I think Pierre's the one to watch out for. Eight times out of ten, the lowest marks come from him, no matter what he says about the contestant's bake."

  The two judges lingered in the garden, surrounded by Matt and Pollock's most recent effort — an ornamental herb garden featuring the southern counties' plants in particular. I saw Miss Hardy pinch a leaf between her fingers and sniff it, then speak to Pierre.

  "Think they're making small talk?" I asked. "Soaking up the sun?" Pierre had complained about the rainy days in England more than once, so maybe the slightly more Mediterranean climate of Cornwall would soften him.

  "More likely they're bickering about something," said Gemma.

  "Already? They haven't even tasted a soggy sponge." Lady Amanda was behind us, peering through the curtains, too. "Although I could eat a whole one myself at this moment, no matter how underdone its middle." She rested her hand on her baby bump. "Little Violet is famished."

  "Violet?" I echoed. "You're back to choosing that one, are you?" I imagined the baby book's predictably crossed-out names and erased lines of negate, but managed not to smile.

  "For the moment," said Lady Amanda.

  "And if it's a boy?" asked Gemma.

  "Anything but Adolf Hitler is a possibility," answered Lady Amanda. "I suppose I must now go greet them as the lady of the house. Wish me luck." She withdrew again, leaving us to our covert observation.

  Gemma clutched the curtain. "There are the contestants," she said, excitedly. "Do you see Dinah?"

  "Not yet," I answered, feeling my stomach muscles clench a little, as if it was me marching up the pathway with a box of kitchen supplies instead.

  They were mostly strangers to me, even the other Cornish contestants and Leeman from the Devon border village. Men and women with armfuls of electric mixers, whisks, wooden spoons, and nesting bowls, filing past the judges and Lady Amanda — and there was Dinah near the end of the line of a dozen or so, a bright yellow stand mixer peering over her box. I was pretty sure her expression of grim determination was pure nerves from steely Dinah.

  "Let's go," whispered Gemma.

  The contestants were assembled in the ballroom when the two judges, Lady Amanda, and the two of us, joined them. The judges posted themselves at the head of the room.

  "Welcome, all, to The Grand Baking Extravaganza," said Harriet, in the precise tone I recognized from the show. "This little gathering will be a review of the contest's rules and schedule, as well as an explanation regarding the filmed portion of the event, so you won't feel quite so lost when the camera crew is present."

  Dinah's words about appearing on telly came back to me as I listened, facing the nervous-looking contestants who were doing the same thing. Sheets of paper were being passed out to them by one of the production associates during the judge's speech.

  "There will be three major events, with forty-eight hours between each one to allow for practice and preparation. Your score will be tabulated after each judging, and combined with your previous score. As you know, the final event being worth fifty percent of the total points in the contest."

  "That's a lot of pressure," muttered Gemma. "No wonder someone always goes a bit wobbly."

  "Filming will take place only during the events themselves, of course, so you needn't worry about anyone interfering with your practice. However, this room, and any other sites prepared for the competition, will be off-limits to contestants during the hours between events. Which means you will exit this room as soon as we have concluded our remarks, and will not be allowed to return until tomorrow."

  This protected recipes and supplies from sabotage, I supposed. Not that anyone in this crowd looked desperate or devious enough to cheat.

  "The rules for the contest are clear and simple. No fraternizing with the judges from this moment until the end of the competition, except at open gatherings where all are present — and even then, no private conservations between any judge and contestant," continued Harriet. "No contestant may give gifts of any kind, or additional baked goods, to the judges. No recipe step for any event completed during the forty-eight hour practice interval may be included in the final presentation. And, last — but not least — of all, no contestant may in any way influence, intimidate, or circumvent another contestant's recipe."

  Harriet glanced at Pierre Dupine — evidently it was his turn to speak. "I hope you will all try very hard, and enjoy your time as part of this contest," he said, in his familiar dusky French accent. "I wish all of you good fortune."

  The assistant handing out the papers handed me one as well. It was a basic outline of the events, not the detailed dossier which Dinah and the other competitors had been given with their acceptance notification. The days and times for three events were listed: a morning bake, a mid-morning one, and an afternoon bake for the finale. The first was a tea dainties' bakeoff, the second, a grand biscuit challenge. The finale — a centerpiece sponge with the theme of love and passion.

  I imagined Dinah tackling this first one. Would she be tearing through her recipe collection one more time, in search of Cornish-themed biscuits or savory treats? Every other contestant was wearing the same expression of shaky composure as they read the list of challenges, a few exchanging nervous whispers.

  "Thank you all for coming," said Harriet, so Pierre's speech was at an end. "We will see you all tomorrow morning for the first challenge."

  The contestants filed out of the room, leaving behind tables occupied by cooking utensils and stacks of colored mixing bowls. Then Lady Amanda and I locked the main doors to the ballroom.

  ***

  "The tea challenge should be easy for Dinah," I said. "She's a master of dreaming up little cakes and biscuits and savories — just think of any event we've hosted, and there's an example of Dinah's genius. I think she has a good chance to impress the judges."

  "It's far more challenging when you have to face your toughest critics before an audience of competitors," chuckled Matt. "This first one will be the hardest. And it may make or break her chances, psychologically."

  "They didn't mention the surprise today," I said. "Do you think there will be one?"

  Sometimes, the judges instituted a 'surprise' challenge in addition to the usual three — it meant bonus points, in essence, if the contestants did well, but a major setback if they didn't.


  "I hope not. It cost one of the northern counties' contenders their chance of winning," said Matt, grimly. I remembered the 'oozy pudding incident', and shuddered a little for its poor baker's sake.

  "Enough worrying about surprises, then," I said, feeling Matt kiss my earlobe as he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. "Are you ready to teach me a few things?" I teased. "You promised, remember?"

  "Only if you're sure you want to go through with this decision," he answered, sighing against my cheek.

  "I think it's high time, don't you?" I said, turning to look into his eyes as I leaned into his embrace. "Besides, I thought it would be nice to surprise your family when they come." Matt's 'family' was his sister Michelle and her new fiancé Liam, currently stationed in Asia. "Can you think of anything better?"

  "All right, you win," he said. "Open the recipe book to page twenty-two."

  My cooking skills were pretty poor when I first came to Cornwall, and even with lessons from Dinah, my talents were still minimal. The baking challenge had made me reassess my woeful limitations and resolve to do better — at least as well as Matt, who was far more comfortable using a decorative sponge mold than I was.

  "First step is to sift the flour," said Matt, who handed me one of our kitchen aprons, a very frilly one printed with cherries. "Then we measure our wet ingredients in a separate bowl..."

  I succeeded in making a mess with the flour, my kitchen trademark, and had a narrow escape from adding the wrong seasonings to our recipe, Matt rescuing the container from my hand just in time.

  "Exact measurements, love," he said, as I trickled molasses — or 'treacle,' as Matt called it — from the cupboard jar into a measuring cup.