Page 5 of Peaches & Cream
Shelby
“You’re stirring that rather vigorously,” Victoria says, grimacing at me as I beat egg whites with a metal whisk, my lips tight as I think about how insulted I am over losing the semi-final. And to an arrogant Aussie no less! Ben Watson has probablynevercooked a peach cobbler before the baking competition, either. I know that because I googled the man— according to LinkedIn, he worked in the prestigious Bourke Street Bakery for most of his career then move to the US where he runs a food truck with his sister and brother-in-law. It’s called The Taste of Down Under. It’s really cute, actually. I can’t tell you how much it pains me to admit that. I also googled Australia, and peach cobbler is not a regular dessert over there at all. Pavlova is. So I’m spending all of my free time this weekend trying to perfect it so I can beat him at his own game.
It’s a risky move, but it’s one I’m confident I can pull off.
“Can you pass me that tray over there?” I instruct Victoria, just as I tip the bowl upside down and hold it above my head.
“What are you doing?” she shrieks, reaching for the bowl to stop me.
I shift out of her way. “I’m testing the consistency of the meringue. If it falls out, it’s not stiff enough. But if it stays, I’ve done a good job. It’s a handy trick I picked up from one of the blogs I read last night for research.”
She shakes her head like she just heard me speaking in tongues. “That’s crazy. Turn it upside down, fine. But do you really have to hold it above your head? I thought you’d gone stark raving mad for a minute there!”
I chuckle to myself as I place the bowl back on the counter. “Not crazy yet. Close, though.” I flash her a smile as she slides the tray in front of me and I scoop the mixture out with a spatula. shaping it into a cute dome with wavy peaks. “What do you think of that?”
She scrutinizes it for a while. “I think it looks like a pile of white glop. Smells good, though.”
“That’s something, I guess. Will you get the oven for me?”
She moves across the small kitchen and pulls the door of the oven open so I can slide the tray inside, closing it when I’m done.
“How long are we cooking this for?” she asks as I step away and pick up the timer.
“One-hour baking. Then another hour cooling in the oven with the door ajar.”
“OK. So what are we gonna do to kill time?” Her eyes go wide. “Wait. I have just the thing. This was supposed to be a celebration, but I’ll accept a commiseration instead.” She heads to the freezer and opens it up, pulling out a bag full of lime-colored ice cubes that she immediately drops into the blender. “It’s margarita time,” she says, grinning at me over her shoulder as she flicks the switch and a whirring, grinding sound fills the air for a second before there’s a spark and a zap.
“Are you OK?” I ask, my heart beating like crazy as the lights go down and the sound leaves us in an instant.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It just gave me a fright.”
I rummage around in the drawer for a flashlight. “The wiring in this place is theworst.If we don’t get it fixed soon, there won’t be any bakery left to save,” I say, feeling the loss the mere idea of such a thing causes in my heart. “It’ll burn to the ground.”
“Don’t talk like that, Shelby. You’ll win this competition, and we can use the money to restore this place to its former glory. It has to happen. You’re the best baker I know.”
I lift the torch so it’s shining against my face. “I’m the only baker you know.”
