Chapter 32 #2
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the ninety-first annual Merryville Christmas Cookie Competition!” The crowd erupts in applause and cheers.
“We have twelve amazing teams competing today for the grand prize of five thousand dollars and their names memorialized in the hall of fame display that’s kept at town hall.
Not to mention, someone will be going home with a beautiful trophy. ”
He holds the trophy in the air. It’s a golden oven on a platform. Applause roars.
I glance over at Holiday and loop my pinky with hers under the table. I give her a smile and she returns it.
“Our panel today includes some of the finest culinary minds in the world. Let me introduce them very quickly,” the mayor continues. “First, we have Patty Morrison, food critic for Texas Monthly and this year’s James Beard Award winner.”
The crowd gives polite applause.
“Second, Chef Marcus Williams, owner of Williams Steakhouse in Austin. He’s been featured in Bon Appétit’s Top 50.”
He stands and nods. The crowd grows more enthusiastic.
“Third, Chef Mary Carter, award-winning pastry chef and author of Southern Sweets and Treats and Preparing the Perfect Cookie.”
Holiday’s breath catches, and I know she owns Mary’s cookbooks. This is a big deal for her.
“Fourth, Chef Thomas Reeves, last year’s Texas Baking Champion and owner of Confetti Cupcakes in Houston.”
He stands and grins at the crowd.
“And finally, Chef Dominic Laurent, Michelin-starred pastry chef from Paris.”
The applause is mixed. Some people cheer enthusiastically, but I notice a lot of people in the Merryville section are quiet. Word must have spread about what he did to Holiday. And if there’s one thing that’s certain about our small town, it’s that we stick together.
“The rules are simple,” Mayor Thompson says.
“You have exactly three hours to create your signature holiday dessert from scratch. Everything must be made here, in front of our panel and audience. If you finish early, present your creation to the judges. Everything will be scored on taste, presentation, creativity, and execution. The team with the highest combined score wins.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Contestants, are you ready?”
All twelve teams shout yes, including us. Holiday’s voice is strong beside me.
“Then let the baking begin! Your three hours start…now!”
A loud buzzer sounds and “All I Want for Christmas Is You” starts blaring through the speakers. The crowd goes wild.
All around us, teams spring into action. Mixers whir to life as ovens preheat. People are measuring and moving around with nervous energy.
Holiday and I look at each other, and she’s smiling now. Really smiling.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” she says.
“Let’s fuck ’em up,” I tell her, singing along with Mariah.
We fall into our rhythm immediately. We start on the shortbread bases together. We’ve practiced this so many times that we could do it blindfolded. Every movement is like second nature.
“Two cups of flour,” I say.
“One cup of butter,” she responds, already moving to the mixer.
We work in sync, dancing around each other in the small space like we’ve been doing this together for years. Because in a way, we have. This is what we always talked about doing: baking together, creating together, and being together.
The Christmas music keeps the energy high. The crowd sings along. The whole atmosphere is festive and fun rather than cutthroat competition.
Fifteen minutes in, our shortbread dough is ready.
I press it into our pans while Holiday starts melting chocolate for the fudge.
Around us, other teams are struggling. Someone drops a bowl and it crashes against the ground, spilling eggs and flour everywhere.
Another team argues about measurements. The couple in the ugly Christmas sweaters looks like they’re on the verge of breaking up.
But we’re good. We’re solid. We’re in our element.
“How’s it looking?” Holiday asks, peeking over my shoulder at the shortbread.
“The best batch we’ve made. How’s the chocolate?”
“Almost there.” She stirs carefully. “Another minute.”
I slide the shortbread onto the table next to her so she can easily pour the fudge on top.
Holiday hums while she works. It’s soft, almost unconscious, but I hear it. A grin touches my lips and she smiles wide.
“What?” she whispers.
Suddenly, we’re no longer in this tent, but we’re teenagers baking in Mawmaw’s kitchen.
“You’re humming,” I say.
She looks over at me, surprised. “Am I?”
A smile breaks across her face. “I didn’t even realize.”
“That’s how I know you’re happy.” I lean in close enough so only she can hear me over the music. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
She blushes. “You better stop.”
“Never.” I steal a quick kiss, right there under the mistletoe hanging above our station. The crowd goes wild, cheering and chanting our team name.
“Jolly Holiday! Jolly Holiday! Jolly Holiday!”
“Lucas!” Holiday laughs, swatting at me. “We’re being watched!”
“Good. Let ’em see.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smirking as she goes back to stirring the chocolate. When it’s done, she adds the nuts. The joy radiating from her is contagious.
This is exactly what I wanted for her, for us. I wanted to do this together and have fun. I wanted her to reclaim the joy that Dominic stole from her in Paris.
“Fudge is done!” Holiday announces, doing a little victory dance as she pours it on top of the shortbread. I can’t help but laugh as we slide our pans into the fridge to let the pecan fudge with the sea salt topping cool.
Around us, everyone seems frantic, but we’re having the time of our lives.
This is what Christmas should feel like. Joy. Love. Partnership. Magic.
And experiencing this Holiday is everything.