Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Peachy Keen {part 1}

Sorry for another picture-less post- I'll post something with pictures soon!- but it's been a while since I've posted something I've written. I like having people critique, so please feel free to tell me if you think something needs to be changed. I wrote this for my sister's birthday. Enjoy!

(find part two here)
(find part three here)

Ding! The kitchen timer rang loudly, letting me know my cake was done. I jumped up from the recipe I was writing, and rushed into the kitchen. I opened the oven door to reveal a beautiful moist chocolate cake, which was filling the room with a delicious smell. Pulling on some oven mitts, I slid the cake out of the oven and placed it on the cooling rack. “Ahh…” I groaned contentedly and smiled at my creation. “You are perfect. Just lovely.” I turned the cake out of the pan and touched it lightly with my fingertip. “Whoever buys you will be one happy camper.”
A voice came from the doorway. “Talking to your food? That’s almost as bad as playing with it.” I turned around, and there was my mother. She is an expert at food. She taught me everything I know. “You know you do it too!” I retorted with a grin. She walked over and took a deep sniff. “It looks good,” she admitted, and then held up a finger, “but… you might have done something wrong. We should taste it to make sure.” Mother reached towards the cake playfully. “Take your greedy hands away!” I shouted, smiling and slapping her hand aside, “This glorious bit of pastry is for the church bake sale tonight!” We both giggled, remembering the time we had eaten a whole cake accidently by ‘tasting it just to make sure’. Just then, I heard my baby brother Anthony crying. “Oh, look what you’ve done!” Mother whispered loudly. She dashed out of the room, and then swung back in for a minute to call, “You’ve got one hour for that cake to cool. Bake sale’s at six-thirty!” I smiled down at my cake, adjusted the rack, and left the room, whispering “Perfect. Just perfect.”

I stepped into the bake sale room, holding my cake. I looked around the room. The bake sale had started already, and customers were crowded around the tables that lined the walls. I recognized a few people from church. My friend Sophie spotted me and bounced over. “Hi, Olivia! Ooh, whatcha got?” She peeked under the wrapping, while I smiled and replied, “Chocolate cake.”
“I’m in charge of the cake table,” she exclaimed, pointing, “Let’s give it a place of honor!”
We walked over together, pushing through the crowds, and I placed my cake in the center of the table. “Nice,” Sophie commented.
“It does look nice there,” I agreed. She rattled her money box and grinned. “I’m ready for customers.”
 “Let them eat cake!” I declared, and we both giggled.
I browsed for a while, wallet in hand, but I didn’t see anything that looked good enough to buy. I’d be ashamed if I made any of these desserts, I thought, but then quickly banished the thought. I knew Mother would be shocked. I could almost hear her saying, “Being prideful is like boasting. We should never boast except in Jesus Christ.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but since Mother and Daddy didn’t like pride, neither did I.
Near the end of the sale, I bought some chocolate-chip cupcakes. As I took a bite, I noted that they tasted better than they looked. Yum.

We stayed after the bake sale to help clean up. I volunteered to take the trash out, and Sophie went with me. “Don’t take too long, though,” Mother cautioned, “Your father will be home soon, and I suspect he’ll be hungry.”
Sophie and I walked to the big garbage cans out back, several bags in our hands, and talking all the way. “Your cake was the first thing sold!” Sophie said gleefully, “There was almost a fight over it!”
I opened the can and giggled. “That one’s a keeper, then. It was my mom’s recipe, but I added a few things.”
Sophie sighed and dumped the bags into the trash, and we slowly began walking back.
I don’t see how you can add things to a recipe and just hope it’ll come out,” she remarked. “I don’t hope it’ll come out,” I exclaimed, “I know it will!” We both laughed and headed out to the parking lot. “By the way,” Sophie said, “did you know there’s going to be a national baking contest soon? I think it’s called like, the National Youth Contest, or something.”
“I hadn’t heard,” I murmured, “When is it?”
“Not sure, you’ll have to look it up,” Sophie looked up at the setting sun, which was coloring the sky orange and purple, and pointed a finger. “Look, isn’t it pretty!”  
I wasn’t interested in sunsets. “I hope I’ll be able to enter.”
“What? Oh, the contest. I’m sure your mom will let you enter,” Sophie hooked her arm into mine. “You are such a good cook!”

I love to bake, as you’ve probably already guessed. Some girls obsess over makeup and clothes, but I feel the same way about pie and cream puffs. My passion started about six years ago, when I was eight. Baking was alright, but I didn’t love it. That is, until my mother (who was a famous chef before she married) started showing me how to bake. The first batch of cookies I made turned out perfectly. After that, I was hooked. I wasn’t satisfied until every recipe was perfect. And now, I couldn’t stop even if I tried. I write my own recipes, or sometimes modify others. But I try to give each recipe my own special touch.

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