Hilary Fields - Bliss

Vanessa raised her toned arms as she delivered the signature line from her hit show. “Make it sizzle!”

The gong sounded again, the crowd roared with excitement, and Sera dashed for her trolley, Malcolm hot on her heels. She whipped off the sheet and started yanking the lids off stainless steel containers.

“What kind of bollocks is this?” Malcolm bellowed.

Conscious of the cameras and the good impression they needed to make, Sera elbowed her pie maven in the ribs, shushing him. But she wanted to holler, too.

None of the lovely-sounding ingredients Vanessa had mentioned were on her trolley. She opened cylinder after cylinder. No cactus flower. No apples. No blue corn, no pine nuts, no smoky-sweet agave nectar. Not even a lowly, lonely chile pod. Instead, there was a gigantic blob of—was that?—yes, it was plain white lard, a rack of spices that could have come straight out of any grocery store, a bag of flour, and some sugar, eggs, salt, and baking powder.

Blake’s first sabotage, Sera thought, somehow unsurprised. He must have switched the ingredients in the carts—or paid off one of the PAs to do it. He’s probably paid the camera guys, too, so they won’t call attention to it. How he must be gloating right now. She glanced across the room, and sure enough, even as Sam Everett was grabbing up armfuls of ingredients—all of them as Vanessa had described—Blake was standing back, a smirk on his face as he watched Serafina discover his perfidy. His expression practically dared her to make a scene.

Which was exactly what she desperately, passionately wanted to do. She wanted to fly across the room and scratch his eyes out. She wanted to bring the whole contest to a screeching halt and call everyone’s attention to his dirty little trick. She wanted to make sure everyone saw how he operated. But she knew he’d have some ready excuse, some way to make her look like the bad guy, just as he’d done at the Anderson wedding last year. So there was only one thing to do. And that was win anyway.

Lard… lard… what the hell can I do with lard? Hm, piecrust… Nope, nothing to fill it with. Think, Sera! What uses lard besides piecrust? Biscuits? Not biscuits—too boring. Ooh, but wait! That gives me an idea!

“C’mon, Malc. Grab me that anise seed, the flour, and all the eggs you can carry. I’ll get the rest.” Sera dove for the blob of lard, snagged some sugar and spices, and hoofed it as fast as she could back to her prep area.

She knew just what to do.

Once they were back at her station, the world shrank down to just her, her helper, and the food at her fingertips. Oven: set. Ingredients: laid out. Plan: in motion. I can do this. Food was reliable. Food didn’t mess with your head. It waited for you to add the magic, and if you knew what you were doing, if you took all the right factors into account, it cooperated beautifully. “Sheet pans, Malc, and my marble pin. Oh, and snag me some of that brandy from behind the bar, will you? I don’t care if it didn’t come off the cart; if Blake’s not going to play fair, I think we can bend one tiny rule.”

Wouldn’t mind a swig of that brandy right now, Sera thought, but the booze wasn’t for her.

As she did mental calculations— need enough for at least ten dozen cookies —and shook out sugar, baking powder, and spices, Sera barely noticed the cameras zooming in on her flying fingers and recording close-ups of her tight-lipped face. She hardly heard Vanessa as she gushed over the chefs’ every move, calling the audience’s attention to their technique, their teamwork, how much time they had left.

She couldn’t have cared less what Blake—aided by Sam Everett’s sure hand, no doubt—was doing. It was all about baking the best-tasting treats of her life.

She mixed, Malcolm rolled. She shaped as he shuttled trays in and out of the oven. They scarcely spoke, so intensely focused were they on the task at hand.

The gong sounded as the last batch received its final dash of cinnamon and sugar.

“Spatulas down, Chefs!” Vanessa sang out. She sashayed—classily—out in front of the crowd, making a production of turning to face the sweating chefs. Blake and Sam Everett were just tidying up the edges of what looked to be a huge cobbler of some sort—or rather, Sam was, and Blake was directing the harried pâtissier, who clearly didn’t need the help. Vanessa approached them first. “Chef Austin, tell us, what Santa Fe specialty have you made for these fine folks?”

Blake leaned his elbows on the countertop so he could address the host. His eyes dwelled for rather a long time on her cleavage before he deigned to speak. “Well, Vanessa, I think they’re really going to love this. We’ve taken some rather humble local ingredients and turned them into a dish that residents of this charming little town are sure to appreciate.” He leered into the camera in much the same fashion as he’d ogled her breasts.

Vanessa played along. “Ooh, I can’t wait. What is it?”

Sam Everett whispered in Blake’s ear. “Green Chile Apple Crumble!” Blake announced. “Can’t have dessert in Santa Fe without green chile, can we!” The audience clapped and hooted, nodding. “I’ve added notes of”—he paused again to let Everett whisper in his ear—“agave, plus locally grown apples, honey harvested from Charma…” Everett whispered again. “Excuse me, Chama , and just a hint of blue corn in the crust. Watch out, folks; this dessert’s got a bit of a kick!”

Blake’s joviality was making Sera sick. She’d forgotten how he could pour on the charm when he wanted to dazzle unsuspecting victims—er, customers. The audience seemed to be eating it up. She just hoped the crumble wasn’t as good as it looked—because it did look (and smell) pretty darn tasty. Everett’s doing, no doubt. Sera saw him flinch as the Food Channel’s PA’s started scooping out chunks and divvying the dessert up among a hundred dessert plates, taking no care whatsoever with the presentation. Sera could spare no sympathy for her fellow chef, however, because now it was her turn in the hot seat.

The statuesque host struck a pose, beaming down at Sera. “So, Chef Wilde, we noticed you chose not to go with most of the signature ingredients on our mystery trolleys. Bold choice there. Care to tell us what were you thinking?”

I was thinking somebody stole all the good stuff, Sera wanted to say. But she knew she’d only make herself look bad if she went crying about unfair advantage. Her time with Blake had taught her that he’d have an answer for everything, and she didn’t think today’s spectators, already flushed with their first cups of strong spiced wine and hot buttered rum, were in a mood to hear her excuses.

“Well,” she said, pasting on a smile and straightening to her full five feet two, “I really wanted to make something that spoke to all the great traditions I’ve been learning about since I moved here. The inspiration for this recipe comes from generations of New Mexican women who have passed the secret of its preparation down from daughter to granddaughter over many years. Using a few simple ingredients and flavors like anise seed, brandy, and cinnamon,” she explained, “you end up with a cookie that’s deceptively delicious. In fact,” she said, warming to her subject despite herself, “I have my friend Hortencia to thank for these cookies.” Sera searched the crowd until she spotted her aunt’s life partner, waving at the older woman, who blew her a kiss in return. At her side, Pauline beamed and gave Sera a thumbs-up gesture. “Hortencia said we’d never really earn our Santa Fe stripes unless we offered these on our menu over at Bliss. She’s graciously trusted me with her abuelita ’s treasured recipe, and I’ve made a few alterations of my own that I hope will honor the original.” She held up a rather plain, star-shaped cookie sprinkled in cinnamon and sugar.