Cake Crime by Kirsty Gill

23 February 2022  { Comedy }


 

Cake crime

It happened at the Christmas fair. That’s where it had to happen. That’s what it had all been building up to. It was the day of judgement. The three professional bakers of the village, though all related to each other, were rivals all year round. They competed for the local and tourist trade. The annual Christmas cake competition was, however, open to professionals and amateur bakers alike. The accolade they all coveted was the title of Baker of the Best Christmas Cake. Each entrant to the competition had their own closely-guarded secret recipe and the baking had started, weeks, in one case months ago.

Preparations began long before the mixing of the individual ingredients of the cakes. Dried fruits had been soaked in various brands of alcohol till they had absorbed the booze and swelled up to at least twice their original size. Some included brandy, as their spirit of choice. Some swore by whisky. Others might choose to soak their fruit in rum. Whatever the case the measures were sure to be liberal but the exact quantity always a trade secret.

Some of the bakers included nuts in the recipe. Others did not. Some of them were even gluten free nowadays. But all of the cakes were covered in a layer of marzipan and finished off by a covering of royal icing.- that was a tradition which never varied. In times gone by a few plastic snow-covered Christmas trees and a hand-piped Merry Christmas atop the icing had sufficed. It had been the taste of the cake itself which had been most important to the judges and the decoration was immaterial. That was no longer the case. The fashion for more and more intricate designs of birthday and wedding cakes had spilled over into the Christmas cake market as well. It was now de rigour to create some fanciful design to adorn the competition cakes too. The trend could not be ignored and it demonstrated such skill (or sometimes lack of it), that it had now become one of the categories in which the cakes were to be judged. No pressure then!

Bettina, of Betty’s Bakery, was a traditionalist and started mixing her drunken dates and raisins with the dry ingredients on Stir-Up Sunday (the last Sunday before Advent). Mixing cakes as well as puddings on this day had been the custom in her family for generations. Her sister, Sarah, who owned Sarah’s Sweet Sensations had, however, dispensed with this tradition altogether, just as she had abandoned most of the customs practised by the long line of bakers in her family. She was the rebel, always chasing after something new, adopting the latest gimmick – she even toyed with nouvelle cuisine for a while! Yes, nouvelle cuisine in a bakery – more money for less cake!

The third professional baker was the youngest in the family, the only male and the only one not to include his first name in the title of his shop. His business bore the family surname – Compton’s bread and cakes. It was a bit of a sore point that he had been the only one allowed to use their father’s name. His sisters always felt that he had been their parents’ favourite child and secretly envied this obvious aptitude for the family’s trade. He’d been baking bread and cakes since he was a child. The smell of freshly baked bread always permeated his family home as well as his shop. He just loved to bake and had a real talent for discovering subtle new combinations of flavours which naturally enhanced each other. Each year David’s cake would bring with it an element of surprise – though always a subtle one – nothing too adventurous. Sarah’s experiments, although they had led to a few successes over the years had incurred a fair share of disasters as well. Her cake would probably be the wackiest. Bettina tended to stick to what she knew best and seldom varied her recipes – the quality was always excellent. Her Christmas cake was bound to be traditional in both taste and design.

The amateur bakers were as competitive as the professionals but their offerings were less predictable. There had been some pretty gaudy cakes entered into the famed, local competition and some weird flavour combinations which, though perhaps inspired by the famous chef, Heston Blumenthal, really didn’t work at all. The cinnamon and horseradish was just one of the more outlandish duos to pass the judges’ lips in recent times.

It was the day of the competition. The cake stall was set up in pride of place in the marquee on the village green. There were plenty of other stalls, of course. Exquisite hand-made Christmas cards and shiny decorations were for sale. Wooden toys painted in bright primary colours and all kinds of furry soft toys attracted the children. Most of them pleaded for some of the sticky, messy, candyfloss too, their wishes usually granted by the harassed parents int the crowd, anxious to avoid a public meltdown. Hand-knitted jumpers, scarves and mittens were laid out next to landscapes painted by local artists . Potted plants in hand-thrown pots could also be purchased. It was very much a local craft fair – though it was advertised throughout the county in the hope of attracting more punters. And the locals were out to impress – none more so than the bakers – the only ones actually, officially in competition with each other.

The chief judge of the cake competition took himself very seriously. He’d undertaken the role for over 20 years and succeeded his father in it. Futile attempts at bribery had been rebuffed in the past. He knew the stakes were high and the power could go to his head. He had no favourites amongst the bakers but he did have his preferences as far as taste went which is why it was just as well he was always joined by a panel of other “experts”. This year the other judges were the local milkman, the post-mistress and the publican. The vicar was most put out that he wasn’t part of the team this year but, having imbibed one too many before the judging had begun last year, that was out of the question this time.

The tasting and deliberations were done in secret The chief judge would then make a big show of marching up to the cake stall to award the rosettes. His arrival into the marquee would be announced by megaphone. He would then address the assembled crowd with an air of great importance, milking his moment for all it was worth. It all added to the drama. The villagers were all well aware of the intensity of the competition and could sense the mounting tension between the rival bakers.

This particular year the chief judge was late in making his entrance – so much so that the vicar strode over to the judges’ tent to see if there was anything amiss. There certainly was. There was quite a kerfuffle going on.

The postmistress had taken a huge bite of Bettina’s freshly cut cake only to spit it out immediately, exclaiming

“That’s vile! It tastes of vinegar!”

course it did. Unknowingly, Bettina had been feeding her cake with the stuff for weeks. Sarah had poured most of the brandy from the bottle Bettina used down the sink and substituted it with vinegar. She’d left just enough of the original contents of the bottle in the mix to make sure it still smelled of brandy. She’d replaced most of David’s rum with diluted marmite – a fact that was also soon discovered to the judges’ horror. Back then the Compton siblings had all had keys to each other’s kitchens in case of emergencies – alas no more! The judging continued.

“That’s really weird – there’s something off with this one too.” said the milkman “ ..tastes of something that it shouldn’t. Can’t quite name it!”

“I’ve got it – it’s marmite!” replied the chief judge, pleased that he’d identified the strange taste, though he really shouldn’t have been quite so happy to have detected it in a Christmas cake.

The judges were somewhat relieved that the next cake , Sarah’s, was pretty good and tasted just as a Christmas cake should. They began to relax and enjoy proceeding with the matter in hand– but not for long. Soon another mouthful of cake was noisily spat out.

“Good grief!. I think I might’ve been poisoned. Don’t even try it!”. It was the publican’s turn to express his disgust.

“This is all getting a bit much. I’m beginning to fear something underhand is going on!” the chief judge finally admitted.

Sarah had also sabotaged the efforts of a couple of the amateur bakers that year. She’d known that the finger of suspicion would’ve immediately been pointed at her had Bettina’s and David’s cakes been the only ones to taste “a bit off”. She sold some of the dry ingredients to a few of the bakers from her shop. It had been quite easy to mix a little turmeric and strong pepper with the ground ginger for one customer. Another was sold flour mixed with powdered chicken stock.

Sarah, herself had baked a traditional, run-of-the-mill Christmas cake, simply decorated with none of her usual wild and wacky flavours or designs. It was all a reaction to the results of the cake competition over the last couple of years. She was fed up of feeling unappreciated. Many of her loyal customers enjoyed her imaginative creations throughout the year. They weren’t afraid to try new things! Why couldn’t the judges be more adventurous too? At least her flavour combinations worked. She would show them just what didn’t – she would stop short of poisoning anybody but she would make sure that the cakes of her rivals demonstrated really bad choices. She would make sure that she was the winner this year, even if it did mean compromising her principles. She would give them what they wanted – and make sure others didn’t. She wouldn’t tamper with the ingredients of all the amateur bakers – that would be just too suspicious. But she was the professional after all, and if her brother’s and sister’s cakes were ruled out, surely she would win.

The chief judge finally strode out of the judge’s tent into the marquee, closely followed by the anxious vicar. He was late and entered the marquee unannounced this time. The crowd sensed that something was up.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a very grave announcement to make. This year’s Christmas Cake competition is, unfortunately, cancelled. The reason for this is very serious. We, the judges, strongly suspect sabotage has taken place. The local constabulary has been informed. We therefore ask that all bakers willingly cooperate with the police and assist with their inquiries. In the mean time all cakes will be confiscated and kept as evidence.”

“The pompous git had called the cops. Really? .” thought Sarah to herself, although she could hardly hear herself think, such was the clamour of the assembled crowd.

Well, she wasn’t going to win this year after all – but neither was anybody else! As for a criminal investigation – surely that was taking things a bit too far. She hadn’t poisoned anybody. Her brother and sister both knew she had keys to their kitchens. They might well put two and two together after all. But surely they were not going to press charges against their sister? It was only a bit of sibling rivalry – hardly the crime of the century!

On the other hand, if the worst came to the worst, Sarah began to wonder what Christmas was like in the clink. Would there be cake?


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