This time, the audience went bananas.
Oh, great, thought Sera. They’ll be biased because Blake’s the one feeding them goodies, and too loaded to tell spun sugar from Frosted Flakes by the time the first dessert comes out of the oven. But she didn’t have much say in the matter, now that the Food Channel had stepped in. It was their show, and Sera, willy-nilly, had become one of her greatest nightmares… a reality show contestant.
Vanessa turned her pearly whites on the chefs and their seconds. “Chefs, for this first round, you’ll each have thirty seconds to snag whatever you can from the mystery ingredient trolleys. In honor of our host city, they’ve been loaded with a selection of uniquely Southwestern items for you to work with.” She ticked off ingredients on her scarlet-tipped fingers. “On each of your trolleys, you’ll find green chile, cactus flower, prickly pear, agave, apples, blue corn, tequila, pine nuts, and some staples like flour, sugar, butter, and eggs to hold it all together. The challenge is to use them—and only them—to create a confection that really screams Santa Fe.”
Vanessa turned her smile out over the audience, which beamed back, enthralled. “Do we have any locals here?” she asked. Whistles and hoots assured her she did. “Well, we expect you guys to hold our two chefs here to a high standard! If it isn’t authentic, we want to hear about it.”
The audience clapped and hollered assent.
Again, that “I float on a cloud above you” smile. “All set, Chefs?” She turned her angelic gaze on the contestants and their seconds. “Remember, just thirty seconds to make your selections.”
“Ready!” barked Blake.
“Ready,” echoed Everett.
Malcolm let out a battle cry that would have done his ancestors proud.
Sera could only nod. Her eyes were glued to her trolley, mind already whirring with ideas. Maybe a prickly-pear-infused gelee with agave and a few pine nuts for garnish. Or I could do a sweetened sponge cake textured with blue corn…
Vanessa raised her toned arms as she delivered the signature line from her hit show. “Make it sizzle!”
The gong sounded again, the crowd roared with excitement, and Sera dashed for her trolley, Malcolm hot on her heels. She whipped off the sheet and started yanking the lids off stainless steel containers.
“What kind of bollocks is this?” Malcolm bellowed.
Conscious of the cameras and the good impression they needed to make, Sera elbowed her pie maven in the ribs, shushing him. But she wanted to holler, too.
None of the lovely-sounding ingredients Vanessa had mentioned were on her trolley. She opened cylinder after cylinder. No cactus flower. No apples. No blue corn, no pine nuts, no smoky-sweet agave nectar. Not even a lowly, lonely chile pod. Instead, there was a gigantic blob of—was that?—yes, it was plain white lard, a rack of spices that could have come straight out of any grocery store, a bag of flour, and some sugar, eggs, salt, and baking powder.
Blake’s first sabotage, Sera thought, somehow unsurprised. He must have switched the ingredients in the carts—or paid off one of the PAs to do it. He’s probably paid the camera guys, too, so they won’t call attention to it. How he must be gloating right now. She glanced across the room, and sure enough, even as Sam Everett was grabbing up armfuls of ingredients—all of them as Vanessa had described—Blake was standing back, a smirk on his face as he watched Serafina discover his perfidy. His expression practically dared her to make a scene.
Which was exactly what she desperately, passionately wanted to do. She wanted to fly across the room and scratch his eyes out. She wanted to bring the whole contest to a screeching halt and call everyone’s attention to his dirty little trick. She wanted to make sure everyone saw how he operated. But she knew he’d have some ready excuse, some way to make her look like the bad guy, just as he’d done at the Anderson wedding last year. So there was only one thing to do. And that was win anyway.
Lard… lard… what the hell can I do with lard? Hm, piecrust… Nope, nothing to fill it with. Think, Sera! What uses lard besides piecrust? Biscuits? Not biscuits—too boring. Ooh, but wait! That gives me an idea!
“C’mon, Malc. Grab me that anise seed, the flour, and all the eggs you can carry. I’ll get the rest.” Sera dove for the blob of lard, snagged some sugar and spices, and hoofed it as fast as she could back to her prep area.
She knew just what to do.
Once they were back at her station, the world shrank down to just her, her helper, and the food at her fingertips. Oven: set. Ingredients: laid out. Plan: in motion. I can do this. Food was reliable. Food didn’t mess with your head. It waited for you to add the magic, and if you knew what you were doing, if you took all the right factors into account, it cooperated beautifully. “Sheet pans, Malc, and my marble pin. Oh, and snag me some of that brandy from behind the bar, will you? I don’t care if it didn’t come off the cart; if Blake’s not going to play fair, I think we can bend one tiny rule.”
Wouldn’t mind a swig of that brandy right now, Sera thought, but the booze wasn’t for her.
As she did mental calculations—need enough for at least ten dozen cookies—and shook out sugar, baking powder, and spices, Sera barely noticed the cameras zooming in on her flying fingers and recording close-ups of her tight-lipped face. She hardly heard Vanessa as she gushed over the chefs’ every move, calling the audience’s attention to their technique, their teamwork, how much time they had left.
She couldn’t have cared less what Blake—aided by Sam Everett’s sure hand, no doubt—was doing. It was all about baking the best-tasting treats of her life.
She mixed, Malcolm rolled. She shaped as he shuttled trays in and out of the oven. They scarcely spoke, so intensely focused were they on the task at hand.
The gong sounded as the last batch received its final dash of cinnamon and sugar.
“Spatulas down, Chefs!” Vanessa sang out. She sashayed—classily—out in front of the crowd, making a production of turning to face the sweating chefs. Blake and Sam Everett were just tidying up the edges of what looked to be a huge cobbler of some sort—or rather, Sam was, and Blake was directing the harried pâtissier, who clearly didn’t need the help. Vanessa approached them first. “Chef Austin, tell us, what Santa Fe specialty have you made for these fine folks?”
Blake leaned his elbows on the countertop so he could address the host. His eyes dwelled for rather a long time on her cleavage before he deigned to speak. “Well, Vanessa, I think they’re really going to love this. We’ve taken some rather humble local ingredients and turned them into a dish that residents of this charming little town are sure to appreciate.” He leered into the camera in much the same fashion as he’d ogled her breasts.
Vanessa played along. “Ooh, I can’t wait. What is it?”
Sam Everett whispered in Blake’s ear. “Green Chile Apple Crumble!” Blake announced. “Can’t have dessert in Santa Fe without green chile, can we!” The audience clapped and hooted, nodding. “I’ve added notes of”—he paused again to let Everett whisper in his ear—“agave, plus locally grown apples, honey harvested from Charma…” Everett whispered again. “Excuse me, Chama, and just a hint of blue corn in the crust. Watch out, folks; this dessert’s got a bit of a kick!”