Page 42 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

Less than five minutes later, Eliza ushers us into the Shamrock Sweets Pavilion, a massive green-and-white striped tent with a wooden sign proclaiming the13th Annual Boozy Bite Bonanzahanging over the entrance. Inside, the air is thick with the heady scent of whiskey, cinnamon, and the nerves of competitors preparing to test their stomach capacity.

Long tables line the center of the tent, covered in green tablecloths and set with stacks of plates. A banner stretches across the back wall showing a cartoon leprechaun with disturbingly elastic cheeks stuffed with cake. Banjo music competes with the excited chatter of spectators who seem to have gathered for what is apparently one of the festival’s main attractions.

“Wow. This is quite the production,” I say as we’re led to our assigned spots at the competitor’s table.

“Honey Hollow might have the market cornered on murder, but Fallbrook knows how to throw a proper all-the-booze-you-can-eat contest,” Carlotta says, eyeing our competition. “Don’t worry, Lot. They all look like a bunch of namby-pamby crybabies who can’t hold their liquor. We’ve got this in the bag.”

I pet my belly and nod. “The babies and I are starved. These people don’t stand a chance.”

We’re all quickly seated and I catch both Noah and Everett rolling up their sleeves as they land on either side of me. Carlotta and Sebby end up across from me and I can’t help but notice thetroubling way Carlotta is opening her mouth and twisting her jaw.

“Carlotta, knock that off,” I snip her way. “Someone is going to think you’re having a medical episode and call this whole thing off.”

“Quit your witchin’, Lot,” she snips back. “I’m just stretching my jaw in a few warm-up exercises I learned from some of the girls down at Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club.”

“What would the girls down at Red Satin need to stretch their jaws for?” I ask. “They’re strippers?”

“It’s called a side gig, Lot,” she shoots back. “Not everyone lives in your happy little murderous bubble.”

My eyes widen in an instant. “Never mind. Please don’t extrapolate.”

Sebby lands on the table next to Carlotta and his ghostly tail swishes with excitement. “I’ve got a hot tip for you ladies. The secret is to compact the cake with your tongue against the roof of your mouth before swallowing—saves valuable chewing time!”

He no sooner says it than I’m left to wonder if I’ve ever chewed cake in my life. I’m more of an inhaler myself.

“Welcome, contestants!” A booming voice draws my attention to the front of the tent, where a man dressed as a leprechaun—complete with a fake orange beard and an alarmingly tall green hat—stands on a small platform. “I’m your host, Lucky Larry, and this is the thirteenth annual Boozy Bite Bonanza!”

The crowd erupts in cheers. Apparently, competitive cake-eating is the height of entertainment in Fallbrook. With the state of the world, I really can’t blame them.

“The rules are simple,” Lucky Larry continues. “You have exactly five minutes to consume as much of our famous whiskey cake as possible. No hands allowed—face-first eating only! The contestant who consumes the most cake will be declared thechampion and win our grand prize—a year’s supply of O’Malley’s Premium Irish Whiskey and the coveted Golden Fork Trophy!”

Carlotta practically vibrates with excitement. “A year’s supply of whiskey?” she shouts with glee and the crowd cheers twice as hard. “Well, butter my sourdough biscuits and call me lucky! My liver has been in training for this since 1975!”

The servers begin placing enormous platters of cake frosted in whipped cream in front of each contestant. The whiskey scent is strong enough to make my eyes water—or maybe that’s just hormones again. Either way, I’m suddenly questioning exactly how much alcohol evaporates in the baking process.

All of it as far as I’m concerned at the moment. Nothing is going to keep me from shoving my face in the first cake that lands in front of me.

“Remember, doll,” Sebby whispers to Carlotta. “It’s not about chewing—it’s about swallowing whole chunks at a time. Pretend you’re a snake unhinging your jaw to consume a mouse!”

I lift a brow Carlotta’s way because we both know she’s not far from it.

Lucky Larry raises a green flag. “Competitors ready? On your marks... get set... WHISKEY!”

The tent erupts in cheers as twenty faces simultaneously plunge into a lusciously delicious whiskey cake. Lucky for me, the whiskey is faint, the whipped cream is indulgent, and the vanilla cake is moist as can be. I try to follow Sebby’s disturbing yet effective advice, but I end up gobbling down in large gulps just the way I like it.

“Carlotta, what are you doing?” Sebby shouts as she moans through every bite. “You’re doing it all wrong! There’s no savoring in food-eating competitions. This isn’t a wine tasting.” He tosses up his front paws. “Fine. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” He face-plants into the cake, and within seconds the sweet treat dissolves before my eyes.

One of the twins gives a swift kick, then the other, and I get the hint. It’s time to kick this into high whiskey cake-eating gear.

And I do just that.

One cake after the other.

“TEN SECONDS REMAINING!” Lucky Larry shouts.

With a final heroic effort, I manage to shove in one more mouthful just as the timer goes off.

“STOP! FORKS DOWN!” Lucky Larry shouts, despite the fact no forks were harmed in the gulping down of these liquor-based concoctions.

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