She Cooks: Author's Notes

·         After writing One Last Play, I wondered what major Emma might be pursuing.  I asked around and Psychology was a popular guess.  Technical fields like Engineering or Computer Science were other common answers.  Medicine, because of her parents, came up as well.  As you can see, I went with Culinary Arts.  Her whole arc is about trying to balance her life as a typical college student with the side hustle of being a highly trained operative for this shadow organization.

·         After her college major was selected, I decided to put Emma in a situation where she had to handle something and not blow her cover.  I thought sending her to a baking competition would be fun.

·         At the beginning of Chapter 15, when Emma pulls out the scotch and figuratively throws down the gauntlet, I had a mental picture of Julian turning to Emma and saying, “Are you f****** kidding me??”  He is stunned as is everyone else, but since he is in competition with her, maybe even more so.  I made the changes to fit his character.  😊

·         Part Two of the story was actually outlined first.  Since I am more familiar with her lethal skillset, that part was easier to figure out.  Part One was a rabbit hole where I spent many, many hours researching pastries, recipes, baking competitions, and all the vocabulary.  So much information did not make it into the story, but I wanted the background so that it would feel real.

·         Pockets.  Every woman loves pockets in their dresses and will take the time to show other women that their dress has pockets.

·         Speaking of vocabulary, researching French curses was fun.  Sophia and Julian do some of the translating for us, but I will let you research exactly what she says to the separatists on your own.  Spoiler alert: it’s very rude.

·         I was reviewing one of the scenes in a draft of Part Two.  The panel truck was in the scene, and someone mentioned Chekhov’s gun.  This alludes to a narrative principle by Anton Chekhov who stated that every element introduced in a story must be necessary; in other words, if a gun is shown in Act 1, it must be fired by Act 3.  So I decided to name the panel truck after him.

·         The phone call after the fireworks is intentionally incomplete.  Did she call her parents?  Her professor?  The Exchange?

·         So, to new readers…SURPRISE!  You thought you were reading a story about a baking competition and stumbled upon an action thriller.  You can find out more about Emma and The Exchange in the stories in my blog.  To returning readers, I hope you had fun.

She Cooks: Chapter 20 and Epilogue

Sophia ran over to Emma, catching her as she stumbled.  “Are you okay?”

Her hair was slightly askew, and her face was smudged from the smoke.  The police swarmed into the courtyard, and she murmured, “I think I need to sit.”  Sophia helped her to one of the tables and sat with her, rubbing her hands.  Julian climbed out of the truck and grabbed one of the policemen.  “Over there, there, and there,” he pointed, gesturing toward the stunned and confused gunmen.  “I recognize some of them as political isolationists from the other day.” 

Kaspar, shaking his head, joined them at the table.  “Just who ARE you?”

Emma gave him a crooked smile, “I’m just a girl in college.”  She pulled out her medallion and gazed at it, then took her phone from her pocket to make a call.  When it went through, she held up her medal to the camera.

“Hey look!  I won!”

 

 

Postscript

A few weeks later, Emma was standing patiently in the express check-out line of her neighborhood grocer, when she started to hear the familiar, yet unsettling, BAM, BAM, BAM from an AR-15.  She caught sight of the shooter making his way into the grocery store, and she acted instinctively.  Her fingernails dug into the bag of flour that she was holding in one hand; she clutched a bottle in her other hand.  Holding her breath and ducking, she flung the bag toward the man, creating a blinding white cloud where she could roll under his line of fire.  She came up under the gun, forcing it upward, and her momentum carried the two of them out of the store.

She landed on his chest, hoping to knock the wind out of him, but to be sure, she smashed the bottle she carried against his head.  With that, she calmly stood up and saw the security officer running over to secure the shooter.  She melted into the gathering crowd and made her way back to her car.  She shook her head, “Dammit, now I’m going to have to shop somewhere else.”

 

A few minutes later, her car alerted her to an incoming call.  Emma sighed as she recognized the number.

“3-5-4,” she answered.

            “Verified.  Authenticate,” the caller responded.

“Zulu, Echo, November.”

“Verified.”  The caller continued, “This is Oversight.  We tracked some activity in your area and would like to ask if you heard anything or know anything about it.”

Emma sighed.  The Exchange was so damn efficient.  “A shooter attempted entry into a grocery store that I was in.  I neutralized him before there was a mass casualty event.”

            “Are you injured?  Do you need medical assistance?  Do you require extraction?”

“I am uninjured, and I am no longer on scene.  I withdrew from the area without confrontation, but I might appear on the store security tape.”

            “Understood.  A scrub team will be on site to patch things if needed.”

“Thank you.”

            “One other question has come up.  The bottle…?”

Emma smiled and shook her head.  “Sparkling grape juice.  The Manager knows I’m not old enough to drink yet.”

            There was a chuckle on the other end.  “Very well.  He was just checking.”

She laughed.  “He could send me some so I don’t have to go to the store.”

“Noted.  Let me just finish this report.”  There was the clicking of computer keys.  “All right.  Have a good day.  End call.”

“3-5-4, out.”

She Cooks: Part Two: Chapter 19

Emma stared as a group of men ran into the courtyard, yelling and shooting assault rifles into the air.

One of the men yelled, “EVERYBODY FREEZE!”  Then to his men, “Take as many hostages as poss—”

She snatched the microphone and screamed, “EVERYBODY RUN, GET OUT NOW!”  She pulled Sophia and the head judge off the stage and pushed them down behind a table. 

            Startled, his eyes darted from side to side.  “WE HAVE DEMANDS!”

Emma flipped one of the tables onto its side as the other two bakers joined her with the remaining judges.  She turned to Zainab.  “Take these people through the kitchen and pantry, find the fire exit in the hallway and get out.”  Her friend’s eyes opened wide as Emma continued, “I’ll keep them busy, so you’ll have more time to escape.”

Zainab grabbed her arm and pulled her forehead to hers.  "Allah ma'ik," she whispered, then took the arm of one of the judges, “Let’s go!  NOW!”  Julian stared at Emma for a moment and nodded, grabbing the other judges and running into the kitchen.

Emma moved in the opposite direction, snatching a plate off a table and flinging it like a frisbee in the direction of the gunmen.  “Over here, you dumbasses!”  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kaspar crouch behind the table, his hand on Sophia’s arm.  She was vigorously shaking her head and pointing at Emma.

The gunmen were ducking down, trying to protect themselves from the barrage of dishes.  “THAT GIRL IS THROWING PLATES AT US!”  Their leader pointed at Emma, “WE NEED HOSTAGES!  GET HER!  IT’S JUST PLATES!”

She flung another plate, striking one of the men as he stood.  She dashed back to Sophia, her medal bouncing against her as she ran.  “Dammit!” she snatched it from her neck.

Wide eyed, Sophia stared at her, “Your medal!”

Emma grinned, “My dress has pockets!”  As she secured her medal, she furrowed her brow, shot Kaspar a look, then turned to Sophia.  “Why are you still here??”

“I’m not leaving without you!”  She shook her arm free from Kaspar’s grip.  “I can help!”

Emma shook her head with a smile and blew out a breath.  “Okay then, let’s go.”  She stared as the bodyguard pulled his gun from under his jacket.  “Put that away!  If those guys see it, they’re more likely to start shooting at us!”  He blinked at her but holstered the pistol as they ran toward the kitchen.

            “AFTER THEM!  ALLEZ!”

As they sprinted into the kitchen, they almost ran into Julian.  “What are YOU doing here!” Emma yelled exasperated.

He cocked his head, a cast-iron skillet in his hand, “This is my country, I thought I should fight for it.” 

She shook her head and scanned the kitchen, “Okay, that’s just fine.”  She grabbed a knife and called out, “Start cutting open these flour bags!  Kaspar, go turn on those fans!  Then everybody out through the pantry!”

Within seconds the kitchen was filled with a cloud of flour.  Emma ran past the ovens, flinging open the doors.  “Everybody out!”  She yelled at the approaching men, “VENEZ ME CHERCHER, LES LÂCHES!  Yeah!  Come get me, you cowards!”   She sprinted into the pantry.  “We better hold these doors, there’s going to be an explo—” The flour dust ignited in the kitchen, sending a punch of air and flame through the room.

Emma picked herself off the floor.  Kaspar was staring at her with a slightly dazed expression.  She nodded, “I saw that in a movie once.”  She picked up a jug of cooking oil and twisted off the cap, “Let’s empty this on the floor.”  She leaned out of the pantry door and shouted, “JE SUIS LÀ‑DEDANS, BANDE DE BÉBÉS!”  Tossing the empty jug onto the floor, she next pulled down a shelf of canned goods.  With a satisfied smile, she pointed to the hallway.  “Okay, let’s go!”

Julian paused and looked at her, swallowing hard, “I’ll be just a moment.”

She hesitated, narrowing her eyes.  “Don’t be long.”  She led her group into the hallway to catch her breath and heard a surprised yelp followed by some scrambling sounds.  A minute later, Julian joined them.  Emma raised her eyebrow.  “Are they still following us?” she asked.

Julian grinned, holding up the cast-iron skillet, “Well, the ones that can.  I think two got taken out by that explosion in the kitchen, and I knocked one out coming through the pantry.”

“Good.  I want them to keep chasing us.”

Sophia’s eyes grew wide.  “Are you serious??”

Emma nodded.  “If they’re chasing us, then more people can escape.  We have to keep these guys busy so that they can’t regroup.”  She looked down the hallway.  “Come on, this way.”  The corridor led back out to the courtyard, and she carefully looked out the door.  There was a group of men arguing and gesturing near the kitchen door.  She turned to her group, “We’re going to hide behind the bar, let’s go.” Crouching down, the four of them made their way behind the counter.  “It looks like everyone else got out.  Now we just need to keep them distracted long enough for the authorities to get here.”  She peeked out over the top of the bar. 

“I…I think I hear someone in that hallway,” Sophia whispered and pointed at the door next to the bar.

“Quick,” Emma hissed, grabbing a bottle.  “Start splashing some of the liquor that way.”  She glanced at the doorway and yelled, "QUOI?  C’EST TOUT CE QUE VOUS AVEZ?  Is that all you got?" She tossed a few bottles at the door, then a few more toward the men by the kitchen.  She leaned down toward her friends, “The fireworks control booth.  We’re going there next.”  She sneaked a look at the door one more time and pointed to the truck, “NOW!”   As they zig-zagged through the tables, Emma stopped and whirled around, screaming, " PATHÉTIQUE! MÊME MA GRAND‑MÈRE SE BAT MIEUX QUE VOUS!”

As Sophia and Kaspar helped Julian into the truck, he turned to them and laughed, “Did she just say that her grandmother could fight better than them??”

“She did!” Sophia giggled.

“BANDE DE MERDES!" Emma yelled, grabbing a candle from a table.

The two students looked at each other, wide-eyed.  “I can’t believe she just called them that!”  Suddenly, a group of the gunmen emerged from the doorway.

Emma stopped and grinned, " FLAMBÉ, BITCHES!"  The expertly thrown candle ignited the alcohol with a satisfying WHOOSH as she ran to the truck.  She leaned in, out of breath.  “The police should be here any minute now-” Suddenly, bullets slapped the front of the vehicle.  “Oh damn.  I think they’re really pissed now.”  As the four of them ducked down, Emma looked around inside the truck.  The chaos and smoke from the fire gave them a little bit of cover, but she could tell they were running out of time.

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do.”  She grabbed Sophia’s hands, looking her in the eye.  “I’m going to distract them, and when they chase me over that wall,” she pointed, “hit these switches.  Make sure you wait until all of them are over the wall.”

Blinking rapidly, Sophia stared at the console, then back at Emma, “Which switches??”

Emma grinned wickedly, “ALL OF THEM.”  She made her way out of the truck and just as she was about to run, Kaspar grabbed her arm.

“I’ve been watching you,” he hissed.  “Who ARE you?  Special Forces?  American CIA?  Show me your badge!”

“OH.  MY.  GOD!” she screamed and leaned toward him.  “I’m just a girl in college!  We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!”  She pushed him back into the truck, “Just protect the Princess!”  She called out, “Sophia!  Wait until everyone has cleared that wall!”  A small hand with a thumbs up rose from the window, and Emma smiled grimly.  “Here we go…”

She ran out through the smoke and yelled, " VENEZ ME CHERCHER, ENCULÉS! VOTRE MÈRE SUCE DES BITES EN ENFER!" The visibly incensed swarm of men gave chase as she vaulted over the parapet.

When the last man had cleared the wall, Sophia peeked out and screamed after them, “You stupids ruined EVERYTHING!  You’re going to be REALLY SORRY!”  She hit the switches and watched transfixed as a wall of fireworks erupted from their tubes.

The explosion from a thousand fireworks smashed through the venue, rocking the truck and turning the night into an alien landscape of harsh light and transient shadows.  The sound of sirens added to the cacophony, joined by the shouts of police and firefighters. 

Sophia shook her head, rubbing her ears and blinking her eyes as she spotted the slight figure of a young college student emerging from the smoke.

She Cooks: Chapter 18

Several hours later, Emma made her way down to the courtyard, wearing the formal that her teacher had reminded her to pack.  She felt a little out of her comfort zone; a slip dress with a slit was not her usual attire.  However, seeing Sophia dressed in a sleek champagne column dress made Emma feel less self-conscious.  Just then, Zainab appeared, resplendent in an emerald A-line gown, with a classically suited Julian hanging onto her arm.  She smiled at the other two girls, “Look who I found waiting outside.  He looked a little nervous, so I gave him my arm.”

Julian sighed, “I’m not allowed to be nervous, I’m one of the hosts.”  He raised his eyebrow with a little grin.  “But I DO need to speak to someone.  I think it’s terribly unfair that they’re having a cocktail hour in our honor, and we’re not allowed to drink.” 

“After this afternoon’s scotch,” Sophia said darkly, “I think I might swear off of hard liquor.”  The next hour was spent mingling with the guests, and before long, dinner was announced.  The four bakers were seated at a table near the front; the judges and emcee were seated nearby.  “Oh this is great,” sighed Emma as she rolled her eyes, “everyone can watch us eat.”

“This food looks delicious, but I’m too nervous to eat,” Sophia admitted.  Zainab nodded in agreement, then smiled and pointed at Julian, who was voraciously attacking his plate.  He looked at the three girls, “I’m not nervous, I’m just—”

They chorused, “Oh, he’s nervous all right!”

Their easy laughter was tempered a few moments later when the Master of Ceremonies and the judges stepped up onto the dais.  The emcee cleared his throat and announced, “Would the four finalists please join us on the stage.  Emma Couteau from the United States.”  –She rubbed her hands on the table– “Julian Favre from Montelisse.”  –His eyes blinked rapidly– “Sophia Nordström from Iselmark.”  –She took a deep breath– “Zainab Hassan from Egypt.”  –Her eyes grew wide– “Ladies and gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, please give a round of applause to these amazing bakers.”

The judges made their way down the line; murmurs of “Congratulations… Delicious… Amazing… Beautiful… Terrific…” echoed across the stage.  The head judge took the microphone and turned to the four bakers.  “I have never seen such an amazing body of work.  During the course of this week, the four of you have displayed the outstanding skills and innovative recipes that lifted you head and shoulders above your peers.”  She paused as applause rolled over the bakers.  “It is my great honour to award each of you… La gerbe d’argent, The Silver Sheath.”  She held up a pin for everyone to see, “For those in the audience, this award depicts a bundle of wheat to signify the origins and advancement of baking.  This week, we came from around the world to celebrate this craft.”  The judge walked the line again, shaking each baker’s hand and pinning the award to their clothing.

“And now,” the judge continued, “I will award La gerbe d’or, The Golden Sheaf.  This year’s winner brought an amazing palate along with technical skills to every round of this competition.”  She held up a gold medal hanging on a ribbon, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, I present the winner of La gerbe d’or…”  She paused dramatically, “Miss Emma Couteau from the United States!”

Emma’s hands flew to her mouth as she blinked back her tears.  The medallion was draped around her neck, and she turned to look at her friends.

The sound of popping filled the air, and everyone turned to watch the fireworks.

Except it was not the popping of pyrotechnics, but rather the sound of gunfire.

She Cooks: Chapter 17

Chapter 17

“Bakers, ladies and gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs,” announced the emcee, “this concludes the public portion of the final round.  The bakers will have a brief ten-minute break before the judging begins.  The competition will conclude at tonight’s dinner and gala in the courtyard where the winner will be announced.  Thank you for coming, and we will see you this evening.”

Emma barely had time to catch her breath before the event coordinator called the bakers to the middle of the semi-circle.  “Good job everyone,” he began.  “This is what is going to happen next.  Each judge will come around to your station, ask you some questions, examine your bake, have a tasting, make some comments.  Five minutes, then they will move to the next contestant.  Since there are three judges and four of you, the baker without a judge will be interviewed by the emcee with a camera crew.  After each of you have seen all the judges and the emcee, you’ll be dismissed and the judges will make their decision.”  He looked at the group of anxious faces.  “Any questions?”  They all shook their heads.  He smiled at them warmly, “Bonne chance!”

 

“Emma Couteau, you created Earl Grey–Scotch Profiteroles with Blackberry–Black Pepper Compote.  First of all, scotch?!  And secondly, a blackberry and black pepper compote—”

“Julian Favre.  A classic Mille-Feuille, but you added fresh raspberries and topped it with an amazing piece of sugar work—”

“Sophia Nordström, you brought your Opera Cake from the cold North and inserted some deliciously warm layers of your own—”

“Zainab Hassan.  Your corner of the baking theater gave off the scent of a Middle Eastern garden.  Rosewater and Pistachio Baklava with a modern twist—”

“–Tell me about your bake…”

 

As the judges filed out and the studio lights faded, Emma leaned against her counter and took a deep breath.  She looked over at Julian who smiled and shook his head.  “I’m glad that’s over,” he chuckled, “I don’t think I could go another round against you.”  She laughed and walked over to his station.  Shaking her head, she said, “Julian, this sugar work is amazing.”  She bent down for an admiring look, “You HAVE to teach me how to do that.” 

Meanwhile, Sophia and Zainab had joined them, the younger baker saying, “How did you get your lines so precise?”  Julian shook his head, “It was a struggle with all the distractions that Emma was throwing at me.”  He pointed at the glass sitting at her station and laughed.  “I mean seriously, Emma.  You left an open glass of Scotch?”  She grinned and waved some of the aroma toward his station. 

“You know what did it for me?” Emma turned toward Zainab, “It was when you poured that chilled rosewater syrup over your fresh oven-hot baklava!”  Sophia’s hand covered her laughter, “Oh yes!  Every single head snapped around at the sound of that sizzle!  At that moment I thought that I should just quit!”

Everyone smiled but fatigue caught up with them, and they became lost in thought.  Quietly, Emma spoke up.  “Hey, you know what?”  With a crooked grin and a mischievous glint in her eye, she rummaged around her station and pulled out three more glasses.  Julian’s eyebrows arched.  She splashed a bit of the Highland Park into each glass and passed them out.  “Cheers.”  She lifted her glass toward her friends.  Sophia giggled, "Skål!" and hoisted her drink.  "Fi sihetak!" laughed Zainab, and Julian chimed in with, “Santé!”  They clinked their glasses and tossed back the scotch. 

As everyone coughed, Zainab, with her eyes watering, managed to sputter, “Oh my, I hope that tasted better in the profiterole.”

She Cooks: Chapter 16

Emma had thrown down the gauntlet.  Julian was measuring his ingredients, then double checking, then triple checking before they went into his mixer.  He kept looking in Emma’s direction, shaking his head, a slight scowl on his face.  She smiled to herself.  She knew how precise and technical he could be, so getting into his head early might give her an advantage.

A quick glance at the other bakers displayed equal intensity.  Sophia was already deep into making her sponge cake but took a moment to look up and smile, mouthing a silent, “Wow” with a nod of her head.  Zainab’s eyes were closed as she waved the scent of rosewater toward her nose.  She looked up at the camera crew at her station, “It reminds me of home.”  Meanwhile, Emma’s end of the semi-circle smelled like Earl Gray as the tea steeped in her milk/butter mixture.  She pursed her lips and measured out a small amount of the scotch, allowing the warm aroma to waft over toward Julian’s station.  He stiffened for a moment, then turned his head slowly to her, sticking out his tongue.

The next few hours were a blur.  Between the maniacal mixing and resting of dough, the boiling of ingredients and letting them cool, the time raced by with moments of intensity and calm.  Critical timing and precise measurements would make or break each of the baker’s creations.  It was a marathon of mental gamesmanship. 

The final minutes were saved for the special flourishes.  Zainab sprinkled crushed pistachios and fresh rose petals over her baklava.  Sophia delicately applied gold leaf onto her opera cake.  Julian gently set a razor‑thin caramel lattice atop the perfect striping of his Mille-Feuille.  Emma’s plating was a study of contrast to the singular pieces of her competitors’ dishes; three dainty profiteroles drizzled with blackberry-pepper compote, and a dusting of Earl Grey powder.  She stood at her station, her hands on her hips, staring at her work.  With time winding down, Emma grabbed a pipette and carefully, deliberately, released a single drop of raw Scotch onto the center of the profiterole filling.  “Now it’s good enough,” she murmured.

“Bakers,” the head judge intoned reverently, “step away from your stations.” 

The roar from the audience drowned out the loud thumping of Emma’s heart.

She Cooks: Chapter 15

“Challenge Brief - Round 3: The Showstopper

Objective: Competitors must demonstrate mastery, creativity, and precision by producing an elegant plated dessert that showcases their technical skill and personal style.

Requirements:

• Produce TWELVE (12) identical plated desserts
• Must include multiple components (minimum of 3)
• At least one baked element
• Professional presentation and plating
• Clear flavor profile and balance
• Time limit: 5 hours

This round tests: Complete mastery of technique, creativity, precision plating, flavor composition, and the ability to execute a complex dessert under championship pressure.”

 

 The head judge stepped up to the microphone, nodded to the audience, then turned her attention to the young competitors standing at their stations.  “Welcome, bakers.  I am honoured to be standing in front of four of the finest bakers that I have ever met.  The competition has been challenging, and the four of you have risen from a very talented pool of your peers.  I congratulate you.”

The judge turned to Emma, the first contestant in the semi-circle.  “Emma Couteau, in the braid round, your last second addition of the sea salt to your Dark Chocolate & Espresso Brioche Babka was the perfect addition to balance the flavours of your bake.”  She turned to the other bakers.  “Julian Favre, your demonstration of technique has been a masterclass of perfection. Your work is beautiful and stunning.  Sophia Nordström, your Gruyère, Miso-Caramelized Onion, and Thyme Braid was an amazing pivot in the competition.  With most of the bakers going sweet, you went with savory.  And finally, Zainab Hassan.  Bold choices with calculated risks, incredible results.”

“Bakers, I cannot wait to see what you bring to the table.”

 

As the contestants began un-boxing their ingredients, the master of ceremonies started at the far end of the semi-circle.  “Zainab Hassan, what will you be baking for us today?”

She smiled broadly, “I wanted to feature a traditional dessert from my country, so I’ll be baking a Rosewater and Pistachio Baklava.  I’m going to modernize it with a layer of Rosewater cream.”  There were appreciative murmurs from the audience as the name of her dessert appeared on the viewing screens.

At the next station, the emcee greeted Sophia warmly then asked, “What will you be baking today?”

“I’ll be making an Opera Cake today, but I’m adding a bit of Iselmark to the palate.  This will be a Brown Butter and Cardamom Opera Cake.”  She nodded to herself as she unpacked.  “Opera Cake is always challenging with the coffee buttercream, chocolate ganache, almond sponge layers.  The brown butter and cardamom will add a touch of warmth.”

“Congratulations for making the finals.”  The spokesman continued over the wild applause.  “Julian Favre, the audience wants to know what you’re going to be baking.”

Julian waved to the crowd and responded, “Today, I’ll be baking a classic Mille-Feuille, a Napoleon with vanilla bean pastry cream, caramelized puff pastry, fresh raspberries, and to top it all off, you’ll see a delicate sugar work garnish.”

Emma was quietly taking her ingredients from her box when the emcee finally stepped up to her station.  “Emma Couteau, you’ve been giving our local favorite a real challenge.  What will YOU be baking today?”

She looked up from her unpacking and looked straight into the camera.  “I’m making profiteroles,” she said simply.  Someone in the audience tittered, and she continued, “With an Earl Gray—” she pulled her last ingredient from her kit, “–and scotch pastry cream.”  There was a collective gasp as she set the bottle of Highland Park 12 on her counter.  She turned to look at Julian.  “And a blackberry–black pepper compote.”  His wide-eyed stare and slack jaw betrayed the words that he did not say.

Stunned, the head judge finally found her voice, “Bakers!  You have five hours to complete your showstopper.  Get ready…Bake!”

She Cooks: Chapter 14

The next morning, Emma woke before sunrise.  She was in a room to herself courtesy of the event planners.  It made sense, of course, to give each finalist privacy to relax and plan.  She took a moment to look over the agenda for the next two days that she had received the night before.  The first thing was the ingredients list for the final bake.  Emma opened her laptop and stared at the recipe that she brought for the final.  After seeing what her competition could do, she wondered, “Is this recipe good enough?  Am I good enough?”

She rubbed her face and walked to the window of her room, staring out at the rooftops of Montelisse and beyond.  What she needed was to clear her head.  Emma wandered down to the competition venue and sat in the viewing stands.  There were workers down on the floor rearranging the stations; four now, instead of eight, staged in a semicircle where each baker could view the others. 

She shook her head, stood up, and drifted down through the space to the kitchen where the contest started, where they had had their first bake.  Tarts.  Was it only a few days ago?  Her hands ran lightly over the bags of flour stacked neatly on the tables, then over the skillets and utensils hanging from the racks.  “Just go have some fun,” her teacher had told her.  “Am I having fun?” she smiled ruefully to herself. 

Emma passed through the pantry, idly looking through the spices, fondly remembering the “breakfast club” bake.  She shook her head.  They had started with sixteen, cut to eight, now they were down to four.  From the pantry, the hallway led to the courtyard, where workers were already setting up for the gala; a bar, dining tables, a raised dais for the award ceremony. 

She walked through the tables over to the platform, stepped up and turned around to look at the empty tables.  In her mind’s eye, she could see the audience, smiling and applauding.  “Applauding…for me?”  Emma took a deep breath, “Why not for me?”  She nodded to the crowd and said, “I’m just happy to be here…”

Emma walked back to her room, still wrapped in the warmth of her euphoria.  She opened the door and stared at the laptop on the desk.  Was her recipe good enough?  She typed in one final ingredient and hit ‘send.’

Now it was good enough.

She Cooks: Chapter 13

It wasn’t until Oliver leaned over and shook her hand that it sank in…she was going to the finals.  Emma’s hand went to her mouth, her eyes wide as she turned to look at the other bakers.  Sophia looked as shocked as she was.  Yuki held up a fist, cheering her on with a heartfelt, “Ganbatte!”  Meanwhile, Zainab was blushing furiously as Saoirse wrapped her in a hug.  Julian was shaking hands with a slightly dejected Jamie.  Emma closed her eyes as the sounds from the audience came rushing in, bringing her back to the theater.

She blinked as the theater lights seemed to focus on her, bright and hot, and the cameras were zooming in—on Julian.  Emma took a step back, relieved, and melted into the shadows.  Then she was turning, running, bolting from the attention, through the door, outside into the open expanse of the courtyard.  She slowed to a walk, closed her eyes, and took deep, shuddering breaths.  She re-centered herself, repeating, “It’s okay, it’s okay…”  She heard soft footsteps approaching and when she opened her eyes, the concerned face of her roommate swam into view.

With a crooked smile, Sophia handed her a bottle of water.  “Are you okay?”

Gratefully, Emma took the bottle and ruefully shook her head.  “Yeah.  I’m a little embarrassed.  I can usually handle stress better than this.  But this is different.”

“Yes, it WAS getting a bit claustrophobic.” 

“It’s just… All my life I’ve wanted to HAVE something, DO something, that was just my own.  And now that I’m so close, it just seems like too much.”  Emma blew out a breath and after a moment, changed the subject.  “So…you’re a princess…” she smiled, “How do you do it?”

            “Do what exactly?”

“How do you find that balance.  Be a princess and be just a regular college student?”

“I don’t know really,” Sophia shrugged.  “I have always been a princess.  Every breath, every heartbeat…I’m a princess.”

“Doesn’t it get to you?”

“When you’re raised with it, it’s second nature, it’s just who you are.  There are times, like this, when I just get to be Sophia Nordström, just a girl in college.”  She smiled, “It makes me feel so very much alive.”

Emma grinned and nodded toward a figure watching from an archway, “I think it very much drives your bodyguard crazy.”

Sophia laughed softly, “Kaspar tells me he has aged fifty years since the competition began.”  She looped her arm in Emma’s.  “Steel yourself, we should go talk to the press.  Just nod and keep saying, ‘I’m just happy to be here.’”

She Cooks: Chapter 12

Fifteen minutes passed before the head judge reapproached the mic.  She looked over the eight anxious faces and began.

“Bakers, you were asked to demonstrate advanced technique and adaptability by producing an artisan braided bread incorporating a mystery savory aromatic that was revealed to be the spicy ginger, the bitter espresso, the salty miso, and the smoky black cardamom.”

She looked up from her notes.  “What you produced was breathtaking.”

“Oliver Bennett, your Ginger-Orange Laminated Brioche Braid was bright, glossy, and citrus‑forward.  The ginger was assertive but not harsh — that’s difficult to balance.  The orange lifted the flavor beautifully.  Well done.”

“Emma Couteau.  The swirl in your Dark Chocolate & Espresso Brioche Babka was dramatic and distinct.  The espresso was bold and complemented the chocolate perfectly.  The sea salt was an amazing finish to your work.”

“Julian Favre, the other espresso.  Your Espresso-Glazed Apple & Walnut Braid…fragrant, beautifully glazed… This was clean and well defined.  The apples: perfectly sliced, meticulously measured.  This was a masterclass in technique.”

“Zainab Hassan and the Smoky Almond & Black Cardamom Danish Braid.  This aromatic choice was risky, but your bake rose to the challenge.  It was bold and daring.  The Danish dough was expertly laminated, producing a shatteringly crisp exterior and delicate interior crumb.”

“Yuki Ito.  Honey and Miso Challah, an amazing pairing of sweet and salty.  You understood the qualities of miso, and it showed.  This was a refined, visually striking loaf with excellent braid definition, color, and flavor.  Thank you.”

“Sophia Nordström, the other miso bake.  You went with savory instead of sweet with your Gruyère, Miso-Caramelized Onion & Thyme Braid.  Your braid was savory, aromatic, and deeply golden.  Rich, well-developed… a confident, mature bake.”

“Jamie Park, your Matcha & Ginger-Strawberry Danish with Mirror Glaze was visually stunning and very polished.  Good work on balancing the matcha, ginger, and strawberry.  The mirror glaze was beautiful.”

“Saoirse Quinn with the Ginger-Poached Pear Puff Braid.  This was lovely, rustic, fragrant, and warmly spiced.  The pears were tender, not mushy.  The flavors were comforting and well-balanced.  You did wonderful work.”

The judge cleared her throat.  “You all should be proud of the work you have done today; these are truly amazing creations.”  She smiled at each of the contestants.  “It is unfortunate that only four of you will advance.  So, in no particular order, here are the four bakers who will go on to the final round.”

Silence enveloped the baking theater, and balling her fists, Emma could feel the tightening in her stomach.  If her work wasn’t good enough--.

“Zainab Hassan…” 

            But anyway, didn’t she have a fun time in Montelisse?

“Sophia Nordström…”

            Emma watched as her roommate’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes blinking rapidly.

“Julian Favre…”

            The roar of the crowd was deafening, and she could feel tears in the corners of her eyes.

“and the last baker is…”

            Would it be so bad to go home?

“Emma Couteau!”

            …Wait, what??

She Cooks: Chapter 11

Emma stepped back and took a deep breath, fighting off her post-adrenaline shakes.  The judges would allow ten minutes for the braids to cool before they made their rounds, so she took the time to shake out her hands, take a sip of tea, and reconnect with her senses.  She glanced at Julian’s Apple & Walnut Braid, nodding with admiration only to catch him staring at her with his hands on his hips. 

Slightly flustered, she turned away quickly and stole a glance at Sophia’s station behind her.  Her roommate was standing, arms crossed, her lips set in a tight line.  Emma took in the tantalizing aroma of her bake, her eyes widening.  “That smells amazing!” she mouthed silently.  Sophia blushed and smiled, “Thank you,”

A quick look at the other bakers revealed differing levels of anxiety.  Oliver was rubbing his hands on his apron, while Yuki rocked back and forth.  On the other side of the room, Saoirse was focused on picking dough from underneath her nails while biting her lip.  Meanwhile, Zainab was hugging herself, her hands on her shoulders.  Jamie blinked rapidly, a frozen smile on his face as he stared at the camera.

The next forty-five minutes were torturous.  The quiet comments from the judges, the murmuring from the audience, the shuffling feet, the bakers’ sighs.

“…Golden…glossy…dramatic…beautiful…striking…”

            “…Slightly dry…just a bit uneven…could use a bit more definition…”

“…Savory…tender…bold…subtle…well-balanced…”

            “…Overpowering…too gentle…a touch heavy…slightly lost…”

The head judge approached the microphone.  “Bakers, we will take a few minutes to compare our notes and tabulate the scores.  After that, we will announce the names of the four finalists.  Thank you for your patience.”

She Cooks: Chapter 10

She had gotten lucky.  The espresso would match well with her base recipe.  Emma nodded to herself, pulling out her ingredients from her baker’s kit, mentally preparing her bake.  This was going to be okay, she thought. 

She stole a look at Julian’s station.  That damn alphabetical set-up put her right next to Julian.  And he picked the same aromatic as hers.  And he was the hometown favorite.  Did he do that on purpose?  Probably not, of course not, it was a secret ballot.  Suddenly, another calamity appeared; the judges were starting their rounds.  She shook her head and focused on warming her milk for the yeast as they approached the first station.

“Mr. Bennett, you picked the Spicy and got ginger.  It will be a crowded field today.  How do you plan to stand out above your competitors?”

“I’ll be making a Ginger-Orange Laminated Brioche Braid.  The fresh ginger will pair nicely with the orange and create a memorable mouth-watering taste.”

Emma kept her head down, waging war internally as her two worlds collided.  All her life she had stayed out of the spotlight, trying to lead a somewhat normal life, and now she was on an international stage with cameras com—

“Emma Couteau from the United States!  It looks like you’re head-to-head with Julian Favre, the local favorite in a battle of Espresso.”  She looked up and smiled wryly as the commentator continued.  “Any words for your competitor?”

Emma glanced over at the grinning Julian, “Frankly, I’m just honored to have made it this far.”  She turned back to the camera, “I’m making a Dark Chocolate & Espresso Brioche Babka today.  I hope I can be a worthy challenger.”

The camera moved to Julian, giving Emma a chance to let out a deep, shaky breath.  She checked her milk, and in the background, she heard Julian boast, “…an Espresso-Glazed Apple & Walnut Braid…”  Biting her lip, she thought to herself, That sounds absolutely delicious.

As Emma focused on blooming her yeast, she continued to catch bits of the other interviews:

 “…Zainab Hassan, the lone wolf from Egypt…”    

“…I thought, go bold or go home…Smoky Almond & Black Cardamom Danish Braid…”    

“...Yuki Ito, you got your miso…”   

“…I was really hopeful…Honey & Miso Braided Challah…”    

“…Princess Sophia Nordström!  What does the Royal Family think?...”  (“Wait, what?” Emma furrowed her brow.)

“…I’m just Sophia Nordström right now… Gruyère, Miso-Caramelized Onion, and Thyme Braid…”

“…Jamie Park…You’re live streaming…”

“…It’s going to look marvelous!... Matcha & Ginger-Strawberry Danish with Mirror Glaze…”

“…Saoirse Quinn from Ireland…Are you happy that you got ginger because of your red hair?...”

            “…When I heard Spicy, I thought, that’s me… Ginger-Poached Pear Puff Braid…”

One thing that Emma and Professor Guthrie had not practiced, had not rehearsed, was this pressure of the competition.  She took a moment to look at the other stations and saw the furrowed brows, the beads of sweat on upper lips, the loose hair slipping from toques.  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  This was a battle, and she – wait…she knew about battles.  Her eyes flicked open and Emma smiled.  The noise from the judges, the commentators, the crowd, started to fade as Emma grasped the situation at hand.

Her eyes took in her baking station.  “This is my house,” she murmured, “I control what happens in my house.”  With that, Emma Couteau from the United States went to work.

Her station became a flurry of improvisation, impulse, and instinct.  While Julian’s movements were precise and measured, Emma was dancing, humming to herself.  She remembered the words of her teacher, “…just go have some fun…”  And when it was time to cut her dough, the audible gasp of appreciation from the audience drew a visible reaction from Julian.  His eyes flicked to Emma’s station and widened at the sight of the stunning layers of black and tan in her creation.

He fought back with his meticulous braiding.  His weave was tight and precise, holding in the apple filling as it went back into the proofing drawer in preparation for baking.  Meanwhile, Emma was working her twist; it was slippery and messy, and her hands were stained brown from the chocolate and espresso.  It went into the pan and into her own proofing drawer.  Her surreptitious glance at Julian revealed an amused smile on his face that acknowledged Emma’s work.  The braids were pulled from the drawers, it was time for the baking.

When there was fifteen minutes left in the round, Julian’s loaf was out of the oven, and he applied his espresso glaze to seal the bread.  He grinned as he set the pièce de resistance, toasted walnut halves carefully placed down the middle of his braid.  He straightened up and shot Emma a challenging glance.

She was in the middle of applying her espresso syrup on her babka, and she stopped, her brush poised in mid-air as she caught his look.  She stared at his loaf, her eyebrows arching.  “How am I supposed to top that?” she murmured to herself.  Her eyes narrowed, “Top that…”  With time winding down, she snatched a salt cellar from her station and rained Maldon sea salt atop her braid.

“Well, damn Emma…”

The timer chimed, and the judge announced, “Bakers, step away from your stations.”