Chapter 23
My shoulders were burning, my vision blurred.
A solid hour hunched over this table constructing tiny sugar furniture had become an exercise in torture.
My hands began to ache from so much small, intricate work.
It reminded me why I’d been eager to evolve beyond pastry in the first place.
The results were beautiful, but the labor was intensive.
Around me, the other contestants’ designs were beginning to take shape. There was the predictable Griswold house from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation , and a Nakatomi Plaza from Die Hard . Some more unorthodox entries too, like a gingerbread man brass band, and a parachuting turkey.
“There are just two hours left,” the announcer said.
“If you can believe it, we’ve been here four hours already, and absolutely no one has offered me a gingerbread sample yet.
Not sure how I feel about that. But I’m on my second mulled cider, thanks to the fine folks at The Foggy Goggle, so it’s not all bad. ”
That was my cue to get my tasting elements on the go.
In one stand mixer, I combined gingersnap crumbs, brown sugar, ground ginger, and a pinch of salt with melted butter to form my pie crust. Once that was in the oven, I filled my second mixer with cream cheese, brown sugar, and lots of warming spices to combine, then added my eggs a little bit at a time.
Next in was sour cream, molasses, rum, fresh ginger, and lemon zest, to create a fragrant and delectable gingerbread cheesecake.
The baking of which was just a little trickier because it required a water bath.
Once my crust was done, I poured my filling over it and wrapped the bottom of my pan with tinfoil.
That went into a larger, deeper pan filled with a couple of inches of boiling water.
Then, the whole thing went into the oven for one hour.
During which I absolutely could not open the door, or it would release all the steam and ruin my filling.
It was a ridiculous choice to make in a baking competition, but would hopefully earn me points for bravery.
Then it was time to start construction. I made up a huge batch of royal icing—perfect for its sturdiness and stickiness—which would be my primary adhesive.
First, I cut my gingerbread into precise slabs, according to numerous paper templates I’d printed and cut out last night.
Then, on a piece of plywood I placed on the center table of my station, I plotted the foundation of my primary structure in icing, and began setting up the first gingerbread slabs, propping them up with small ramekins, bowls, cans, anything heavy enough to keep the walls upright while I worked.
I realized very quickly that I might’ve underestimated how long this design would take to construct.
Minutes seemed to tick by at an increasingly rapid pace while I tediously lined my board and slabs with icing and stuck each piece in place with a wish and a prayer.
The size of the whole thing seemed to balloon exponentially larger than I’d imagined in my head.
My measurements were all exact, but as the structure grew higher, I faced the growing difficulty of how to access the upper portions without toppling the whole thing.
I climbed up on the cooler. Then up on top on the table.
“Whoa. Looks like we might have to punch a hole in the tent soon,” the announcer commented, to laughter from the audience.
“Contestant number ten is certainly taking the Thanksgiving Throwdown to new heights this year. Right, folks? What do you say? Let’s give our bakers some encouragement as we come down to the home stretch. ”
I had exactly enough materials to accomplish this design, so there was no room for error.
I couldn’t risk crumbling one gingerbread slab or it would endanger the whole structure.
Which meant I had to work slowly. I was sweating bullets as I lathered on colored icing and glued down decorations.
Inserted dozens of tiny pieces of furniture.
Planted candy trees and dusted gingerbread rum ball snowmen in coconut.
Installed candy glass windows and put little skating sugar people on a candy glass pond.
“This is incredible!” Mia appeared in front of my station just as I was hanging a gingerbread blondie helicopter from a hooked wire that dipped over the main structure. “Elle, I can’t believe you built this by yourself.”
“Don’t celebrate yet,” I warned her. “I’ve almost fallen on this thing like three times already.”
“I brought you some coffee,” she said, setting a cup down on one of the side tables near my mixers.
“We are down to the final hour, bakers. One hour left,” the announcer told us. “This is really getting exciting now, folks. You’ll want to grab a good spot for the final judging.”
“Any sign of Bea or Delilah yet?” I asked, teetering over my gingerbread monstrosity with a piping bag as I layered on the snow-covered roof.
“Not yet. But I’m sure they’ll be here any minute.”
“Oh, shit!” I almost forgot. I jumped down from my perch and dropped my piping bag to check on my cheesecake.
But when I got to the oven, something wasn’t right. The little orange light above the temperature dial was off. Inside, the oven was dark and the water bath wasn’t bubbling.
No.
No, no, no.
I opened the door and felt the inside. It wasn’t nearly hot enough. I shook the pan and watched my cream cheese filling jiggle back at me.
“Shit!” I hissed under my breath.
“What’s wrong?” Mia whispered, leaning across the near table.
“My oven wasn’t on. How did that happen? I was pretty sure it was warm when I put the pie in.”
Mia came around to the back of the station and traced the power cord to the surge protector, where two red lights indicated that the breaker had tripped.
“It shut off,” she said. “What now?”
“I don’t have enough time to preheat the oven again and get it baked. It needs every bit of the hour to cool and set up.”
I didn’t have a backup plan for my plated dessert element. It was gingerbread cheesecake or bust.
“I don’t suppose you have any ideas for a dessert you don’t have to bake,” she said.
“Wait!” I laughed to myself. “Duh! That’s exactly it.”
Mia stared at me, confused. “What did I miss?”
“No-bake cheesecake.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked, watching me scurry around my station to see if I had enough remaining ingredients to make a go at another batch.
“Eggs, basically. Take out the eggs and you don’t have to heat any part of it.”
The trick was giving it enough time to set up in the blast chiller instead.
I’d used all my gingersnap cookies in the first crust, but I did have the gingerbread scraps from my construction slabs.
Adding some extra sugar, butter, and warming spices, with a bit of orange zest and lemon juice, would revive the crumb into something delicious.
Then it was just a matter of mixing up another batch of filling, this time minus the eggs.
I’d also need to burn off the alcohol from the rum first.
Mia could only watch as I poured the last of my rum into a pan and lit it on fire. The audience reacted with shouts of awe as they suddenly leaned away from my station.
“Watch out, folks,” the announcer cautioned. “We better keep those fire extinguishers standing by. Things are really heating up in here, huh?”
I popped the rum into the blast chiller for a few minutes while I mixed up the components for my second cheesecake attempt.
I then added the rum, mixed the filling a bit more to combine, and applied both my crust and filling to a spring-form pan.
That went into the blast chiller, with a fervent, desperate wish for things to work this time.
“How are we doing?” Charles had reappeared at the station.
“Only slightly panicking.” I didn’t have a moment to glance up at him while I rushed to get the final components on the plywood base.
“Where are Bea and Delilah?” he asked.
“No idea.”
Even running around my station, I could sense the palpable tension on the other side of the tables, where Charles and Mia were standing conspicuously far apart.
“Hi, Mia,” he said at one point while I placed a hat on Santa and put little fondant candles in the windows. “Long time no see.”
“Uh-huh,” was her only response.
“This is it, bakers. Get those final touches on there.” The announcer’s voice again broke through the commotion of the crowd. “Make it festive. Make it delicious. This is the final countdown to the end of the Thanksgiving Throwdown.”
In the last few minutes, I didn’t have time to think, only react.
This was the most delicate part of the construction so far.
I pulled out all of the stabilizing supports to let the structure stand on its own.
There were audible gasps and exhales as each of us, every baker down the line, began to pull the training wheels away.
I heard more than a few groans and yelps of disaster, which meant someone had just seen their gingerbread dreams dashed, but I couldn’t spare so much as a peek.
There was only time enough to stage my showpiece and . . .
“The cheesecake!” Mia yelled frantically.
I grabbed my dessert and tested it with a toothpick. The texture seemed right. Not too firm, but not too soft. I decorated it with piped whipped cream, cranberries, and caramelized orange slices. I set out three plates for the judges, where I would serve the slices when they arrived.
“Okay, folks. Here we go. Count down with me,” the announcer called. “Five, four, three, two, one! That’s it. Hands up, contestants. The baking portion of the Thanksgiving Throwdown is officially complete. Let’s give them all a round of applause!”
Mia gave me a high five over the table. “You were amazing!”
“Well done,” Charles said, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Incredible work.”
The wait now was excruciating. I was the last baker in line for judging, which meant I could only stand there and obsess over all the things I would have done differently.
I watched as each contestant in turn demonstrated their incredible ingenuity.
There was a rotating carousel and a pop-up jack in the box.
Plenty of lights and even confetti poppers. Until finally, it was my turn.
Three judges stepped up to my table. While they scribbled initial impressions on their notecards, I plated their desserts.
“Alright, judges. Last but definitely not least, is contestant number ten, Eleanor Evans. Her entry, as you can see, is a scale model of Maplewood Creek’s Main Street, complete with ice rink, Christmas tree, and the focal point, The Snowdrift Inn.
Her tasting element is a gingerbread cheesecake.
Now, go ahead and show us your special element,” the announcer told me.
Every entry included some kind of surprise. Something that moved or lit up. I’d agonized for days about how I would make this design special. I only hoped I hadn’t missed the mark.
First, I flipped the switch to a tiny motor that made the blades of the helicopter spin, giving the impression that it was flying overhead.
“That’s a nice touch,” one judge commented to herself.
But that wasn’t the real trick.
The audience gasped and applauded as my entire Snowdrift Inn opened up to reveal a fully rendered interior like an old Victorian dollhouse.
Complete with furniture, guests, Pops behind the front desk, and the twins hanging decorations.
Maybe mine didn’t explode or shoot lasers, but it was beautiful, and a hell of a lot of work.
“That is remarkably accurate,” another judge marveled. “I was just there a few days ago. You even got the umbrellas by the door.”
Finally, I handed each judge their gingerbread cheesecake. I thought I saw a few smiles and nods, but I couldn’t be sure their reactions weren’t just polite enthusiasm. They sampled my gingerbread rum ball snowmen and gingerbread brownie cars while I obsessed over their every hum or shared glance.
“Judges, do you have everything you need?” the announcer asked. “Alright, I think that’s a yes. And so, we’ll be right back once the judges have had a chance to deliberate. And please, remember to come up and drop in your vote for audience favorite as well.”
“You did it, Elle!” Mia shouted. “I know you won. They loved it.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I said, collapsing to sit on top of the large cooler. I could barely feel my feet anymore. “Hey, whatever happened to Bea and Delilah? Has anyone heard from them?”
I watched Mia and Charles reach for their phones to check, and saw both of their faces fall, a grim darkness overwhelming their expressions.
“What?” I said, anxiety rising in my gut. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s a message from Bea. Pops had an accident. He’s in the emergency room.”